Sly Cooper: Heart of Darkness
by Deags
Summary: A first person take on Sly Cooper, changes the formula for the characters and story. A must read. Film noir style:downbeat, gritty crime, romance, and action-based driven orientation; like the Hollywood movies of the 1940s. From the author that brought you Sly as a Fox, Deags presents a Sly Cooper Pulp fiction entitled: "Heart of Darkness.
1. Chapter 1: In Medias Res

**A/N & Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights to any of the characters that are affiliated with _Sucker Punch Productions (2002-05)_, _Nihilistic Software (2011)_, and/or _Sanzaru Games (2012-Present)_. I do however, own their products and highly recommend to those who don't, to please support the creators of the franchise. The portrayal of their characters in this fan fiction is just that, of fiction; they do not in any way reflect the "actual-true fictional storyline" created by the *stated above* developers of the Sly Cooper franchise.

Greetings everyone, Deags here with my second Sly Cooper fan fiction. As stated, this one will be very film noir, meaning that this series will be more downbeat, gritty crime, and action-based orientation; like the Hollywood movies of the 1940s (If you're interested, please feel free to read my first Sly Cooper fan fiction, _Sly as a Fox_, as it's more in canon with the original Sucker Punch Productions' Sly Cooper with humor, clever heists, action, and adventure). Instead there will be death, lamentation, realistic consequences of actions, and much more!

I have decided not to depict the physical sexual content, or use "mature language," (which sucks, because an expletive used at appropriate times can be used to in a dialogue and/or scene to better capture the moment than any long winded paragraph, and in just one word. "Appropriate F-bombs") as I would have to put this story in the M+ section meaning that no one will ever read this. However, there will be some coarse language so if you're offended with it, or if you dislike the idea of your favorite lovable anthropomorphic raccoon cussing, this might not be right for you.

Hopefully I will receive some readers and reviewers, but if I don't, that's fine too. I write because I simply love writing. With that said and done, please enjoy chapter one.

**Chapter One:** _In Medias Res_ – In the Middle of Things -

"He's driving off in the van! Can you line up a shot?" I questioned into the mic.

"I don't have a clear line of sight with the target, but I can disable the vehicle." A voice on the other end responded back.

I thought it over for a second, "Do it."

There was a soft crack in the air, accompanied by the sound of tires being blown out a fraction of a second later, followed by a screech I likened to a banshee's wail. Try as he might, the driver soon lost control of his vehicle swerving off the dirt road, and plowing through a chain-linked fence. He collided into a shipping truck which had containers loaded onto it. They rained down upon him.

There was a moment of silence, "Visuals?"

"Lost the shot," I heard him say. "Can't see past those containers."

"Cover me," I said. I doubted that anyone caught up in the firefight would notice me stealing across the road forty meters south of their position, but I wanted backup just in case. I eased to my feet and scrambled down the embankment, my cane out. I crossed the street in a crouch, and ducked through the hole that the van had punched through in the fence.

Once inside, I slowed down and moved more cautiously. I held my cane in my right hand, the shaft angled down slightly, and my wrist pressed tight against my chest. My left hand was at chin level and further out from my body, where it could deflect an attack, and keep scar at bay if needed.

The street was well lit, and the container area was dark by comparison. My eyes weren't fully adjusted. The van was obscured by the containers that had fallen around it. I couldn't see the driver-side door.

I moved up slowly, inching forward, my eyes scanning left, right, and center, my cane at the ready tracking my searching vision. _Scan and breathe. Front foot down, slide forward. Pause. Check position, and repeat._

Scar's eyes wouldn't be any better than mine were, but I knew the street lights were backlighting me, exposing my position. I needed to move into the dark. I started to circle to my left.

Just as I cleared a container, something hit me in the left ribs like a battering ram, finding its mark between my chin-level free hand and the stomach leveled cane. There was an explosion of pain and I went flying backward. As I hit the ground I could hear Bentley's voice: _With his kicks alone, he can break individual ribs._

_Maybe three or four at a time_, I thought to myself as the pain shot up my sides.

I managed to tumble breaking my fall; the breakfall distributed the impact and saved me from further damage. Lying on my back now, I tried to bring the cane up to where I thought he would be, but he had already moved in. His foot blurred off his chambered hip in some sort of spiral kick, and he blasted the cane out of my hand. I felt the shock up to my shoulders, and I cursed under my breath.

He reached inside his jacket. What he pulled out flashed in the lights, reflecting the lights from the street. I realized it was a razor, just as Bentley had warned me.

I brought my legs up to try and kick him away, and was surprised to see him take a step back. I thought, _he knows your background, he knows how you operate, he's being careful about closing in, even with the razor_, but I saw him wiping blood from his eyes and realized the pause was driven more by necessity than by tactics. He must have gotten smacked around when the van hit the containers.

He swayed for a second, and in that second I rolled backward and sprang to my feet. I felt a hot stab in the ribs where he had landed home and thought, _if I get out of this alive, I will carry more than just my cane… I don't give a shit about all the good reasons not to. _

I took two more steps back to buy a little time, and to give myself some distance, and then glanced down at the ground. I didn't see the cane. There were too many shadows, and too much junk lying around: cracked wooden panels, container doors, sections of chain-link fence, and shards of glass. To my right was a pile of what looked like oversized meal hubcaps. I swept one up and liked the heft of it in my hand. If there had been some sort of handle on it, I could have probably fashioned it as a shield. Instead, I slung it like a Frisbee. It hissed through the air straight for Scar's midsection. He jumped left and it sailed past him. _Damn, he was more a dancer than a savate user. _He started to move toward me and I snatched up another metal disk, seeing as I did so that after two more, I would be out of ammo. I sent it flying. He dodged again, I grabbed the third and fourth, and threw them in rapid secession. The first flew towards his head, but he managed to duck under it. But the second one, or technically the "fourth," found its mark. He had tried to bring up his razor wielding arm to protect himself and the disk slammed into it, knocking it back into his head. I saw the razor tumble out of his grip onto the ground along with him, and felt a rush of satisfaction.

He stood up and glanced down, and I immediately took two long steps towards him. He looked up at me, knowing that he wasn't going to have time to grope around for his weapon, and we stood facing each other for a moment, each of us breathing hard. He hitched his pants up slightly, creating a little more freedom of movement for his legs. _That's it_, I thought. _Give me one of those goddamn legs you're so proud of. I promise to give it back when I'm done with it._

I had to be careful, though. His physical skills and tenacity were obvious, but more than that I expected his tactics to be sound, too.

I circled left, my hands up in a boxer's stance. He did the same; he shook out his wrists, probably to shake out the pain from his tumble just now. After doing a one-eighty, we were now in each other's respective starting position. We both stared at each other, waiting for the other to move. _He's going to lull you in. He's a savate user, but he's still skilled with his fists. But no matter how it goes down, he will eventually try and finish you off with one of his kicks._ I knew that I needed him to make the first move.

I taunted him, "Come on _stripes_, what kind of tiger waits for his prey?"

He took the bait. With a loud roar, he charged me. When he approached me, there was a sudden subtle shift in his weight. It was all in his front leg, and his shoulder started to rotate. I was expecting and ready to counter his punch, when he suddenly surprised me by being in midair.

"Oh f…!" I managed to cry out, shifting my head back in the nick of time. I felt the wind of his kick as it blurred past me. There was a loud resonating sound of impact, as his kick made contact with the container behind me. There was a large dent in the _metal_ container.

He had shifted all of his weight onto his leg, kicked off of it, and rotated in midair for another one of his spiral kicks. _The rotation of his shoulders was a feint. _A feint that nearly paid off. If my instincts had been a little bit off, I doubted my head would still be fastened atop my shoulders right now. I swallowed, and grimaced at that aspect.

The worst part of that exchange was how quickly he had recovered, and looked ready to launch another one of those kicks. _What's his leg made of?_

He growled and charged at me again, he swiped at me, right, left, and then right again. Although not as powerful as his kicks, his punches were almost just as fast. Every swiped he clawed at me; he tore away at my clothes, a testament to his years of training.

He made a swipe at my head, and I crouched low. I grabbed a handful of dirt in my left hand, and tried to throw it at his face. He managed to block my hand just as I was bringing it up; the dirt caught him underneath his jaw and dissipated in the air between us. He roared while taking a step back, swiping at the air, the dirt following the vacuum of his movements. I stepped into him and launched a kick of my own into his midsection. He grunted from the impact and was launched backwards. He rolled, landing on his four paws. He glared upwards at me, and from him, came a low growl.

His growl came to an immediate halt, when he caught the split second glance I took at the patch of dirt in front of me. Confused, he started scanning the general vicinity of where my gaze was directed, and that's when he saw it. A sliver of light crept in and with it, danced upon a golden metallic surface. _It's the raccoon's cane_. That moment of recognition dulled his senses just long enough for me to make a break for it. He started out of the gates later than I did his goal the same as mine: _Must get to the cane first._

I was two steps away before I caught sight of him in my peripheral vision. _He was in midair again._ I quickly scooped up my primary weapon of choice, and brought it up in front of me. He crashed into me. We both rolled atop of one another until he managed to pin me down, claws and teeth bearing down on me. He was a good fifty or more pound heavier than I was, and its additional weight now pressed down upon me.

"I'm going to enjoy this," he said His eyes red from bloodlust and frenzy, his mouth and teeth dripped of saliva as it inched closer. "You're going to die here."

I didn't reply. All I did was grunt with effort, using my entire energy reserve to push Scar upwards, like Sisyphus being compelled to roll an immense boulder up a hill, only to watch in vain as his efforts of labor were for naught as it rolls back down. His face was close now; I could feel his breath on my fur.

There was the blinding pain from my flesh being torn, and he roared in triumph. He had struck home and had drawn first blood. His ferocity increased with the scent of blood and continued to press on. I desperately felt along the ground for something, anything that could get me out of this situation.

He roared again, this time not one of triumph, but one of pain. I smacked him once in the nose with the crook, pivoted my body, and threw him off. I got to my feet and took a few steps back, breathing ragged, and my left shoulder bleeding profusely.

He tried to do the same, but his leg gave out on him. He looked down to see that he too, was bleeding. With an angry scowl, he willed himself to stand. Even with a four inch glass shard imbedded in his thigh. In one swift move, he pulled it out, barely wincing while doing so.

"Cute. Very cute, vermin. But you'll have to do better than that." He said, as he tossed the shard aside.

He slapped himself across the chest. "Come on then. Come on!" he roared.

This time, I played the aggressor; I rushed in and swung hard at his head. He parried with his forearm, and counter with a right. I attempted to jab him with the shaft, he quickly sidestepped. I had doubt, but I was almost certain that if I could take him to the ground, the advantage would be mine.

He chambered his right leg, feinted, and then returned the foot to the ground. He repeated the maneuver. And again. The upraised leg started to return to the ground and I saw my opening. I shot forward. But the third time had been no feint, or in fact it had been the real feint, and the leg reversed course and whipped in from my left. I covered up with my left elbow and I took the full brunt of the attack, my arm was now numb and unresponsive. It felt like I'd been hit with a hammer. He retracted the kick, and then shot it in again, this time toward my forward knee. I lifted the leg just as his heel landed, and, although it hurt, the impact was dissipated enough to prevent it from being shattered.

He replanted his right foot and I shot my own kick in, a basic front kick off the back leg aimed at his knee. He twisted clockwise off the line of attack and parried inward with his left hand. I reached out and managed to snag his left sleeve of his shirt with my right hand. I swept my right leg around clockwise along the ground and levered his arm backward, trying to break it. Even with his balance destroyed, though, his reflexes were quick. Rather than resisting the wristlock, he launched his body into it, getting ahead of the lock's momentum, and saving his arm.

He landed on his back and I immediately dropped onto his chest, my left knee leading the way. He grunted and I heard the wind being driven out of him. I kept his left arm and dragged it upward, simultaneously sliding my left foot under his ribs preparing to fall back into an arm lock and take out his elbow. But again he showed both quick reflexes and sound training. His reaction cost me some of my leverage that I had on him, but I still held on to enough of his arm to damage him. I straightening his arm and I popped backward and levered his arm against the natural movement of the elbow joint. I felt and instant of resistance from the surrounding ligaments, then felt the joint break with a resounding crack. He screamed and writhed under me.

He tried to sit up and I allowed him to. I snaked around him pinning his broken arm up and above his shoulder, he howled in pain. My arm was getting a bit of feeling back, from when he kicked me, and I managed to secure a strong enough lock with my cane underneath his neck, and wrenched it backwards. I was now choking him, and cutting off the air circulation from reaching his brain. In a matter of seconds he'll be out cold, faster if he continues to struggle.

Aware of his dire situation, his eyes, were now the size of dinner plates as he desperately grasped for air. _Come on, just five more seconds_. I thought to myself, that was, until I had a horrible revelation. _Where the hell is his other arm?_ My stomach lurched at the knowledge. Then, as that lurch rolled sickeningly through me, his free arm flashed into view, light glinting off the surgical steel he was holding in it. A second razor, deployed after the attacker had been lulled by disarming him of the first.

I wrenched his head up harder and applied more pressure to his broken arm, he screamed again, but he was fighting for his life now and wasn't going to be stopped by pain alone. He slashed at my thigh with the razor. I decided to let go of his arm and make a grab for his wrist but missed, and the blade continued to cut deep into my leg. He pulled back, then immediately cut me again. There was no pain, really, adrenaline is an amazing thing. When he pulled back again to strike at my leg again, I made for another grab, but missed again, resulting in him cutting the palm of my hand. He was starting to slow in his actions, but it wasn't fast enough. I pivoted my body and use the momentum and getting my weight into the blow, slammed his head to the ground. His head smacked onto metal. Once. Twice. Thrice.

I felt his body go limp and the razor slipped from his grip. I transferred his wrist closer to me and used my eyes to search the ground. There it was the razor. I shifted my weight to get out from under him and picked it up. I flipped him on his back and sat atop his chest, I placed the blade underneath his neck.

"_Laissez tomber le couteau_!" - Drop the knife! – A voice cried out in French.

I froze, thinking, _what the hell?_

I looked back over my shoulder. Two serious-looking canines stared back at me, each with a shock pistol pointing at my head. And from the sound of its hums, they weren't set to stun.

"_Laissez tomber le couteau_!" one of them said again.

I did as he asked and started to stand. My leg wobbled, then completely went out from under me. I looked down and saw why. My thigh was gashed wide open and spurting blood. My palm was doing the same thing.

I sank down to my knees and looked at them. "You must be Scar's Interpol handlers." I asked them in French. But they ignored me. Beside me, Scar began to stir.

He must have positioned them up the road as backup, and when he didn't make it to the check point they must have become suspicious. He must have made contingency plans for a number of scenarios.

Scar sat up and cursed under his breath. He got up unsteadily to his feet with the aid of one of the men in black. I watched him, my face impassive, I was already kneeling, and now I placed my hands calmly across my bloody thighs.

Scar wobbled on his feet, cradling his broken arm as one of the men held him in support by his good shoulder. Blood was running down his face from the hubcaps I slammed his temple on. His nose was bent out of shape and crooked; I must have broken his nose in the scuffle. His body convulsed, as do most when they just recently receive head trauma, then he leaned forward and vomited. The two Interpol agents watched and said nothing.

He spat and again cursed under his breath a few times in his native tongue, and wiped his face with his good hand. For a few moments he stood hunched over with his good hand on his knee, sucking in air like his life depending on it, which, in a way is understandable upon what happened just before. Finally he straightened up, a little color returning to his face, and asked me in English, his voice hoarse from being strangled, "How did you find me? How is it that you've been tracking me?"

I ignored him. It seemed that my luck had finally run out. I expected no help from Murray, there was a duffel bag with two and a half million, in cash, being contested in front of his position. All he had to do was snipe the rest of the gunslingers on the road, and it would all be his. I couldn't reasonably expect him to abandon it; he was a mercenary for hire. I was alone now, nothing could save me now. In a way it's fitting, all alone in the world, after all the things I'd done and survived through, I was now going to die a dog's death, put down in my prime.

I looked back at Scar now, and I realized he was still talking. When one is close to death and is basically knocking as his door; the world grows deafeningly silent.

"Tell me! Tell me how you located me, and I promise to kill you quickly. If you don't, I will make sure you die in the most painful way; you will suffer until your last. Dying. Breath."

"I turned my head away, from his angle I could see out into the harbor. _Death catches everyone eventually, and I had never harbored any illusions about its ability to catch me. It had hesitated so long to do so, seemed born more of a desire to mock me than any real inclination to wait. Death had grown tired of that game, and had finally moved in to collect what we all owe._

Scar grabbed my head and forced me to look at him, but I my eyes were no longer focused on the here and now. It was as if I had transcended from my body, and it was no longer a vessel, but now a hallowed husk of what I once was. He brought his razor to my eye.

"Last chance vermin… Tell me what I want to know!" he screamed.

When I didn't respond, whatever patience he had left disappeared. "Rot in hell."

The last thing I remembered was the image of Scar thrusting his knife towards me at what seemed like at a snail's pace to my current state. Then there was darkness.

For I had closed my eyes.

**A/N: **Well that's the end of the first chapter entitled: _In Medias Res_, or "in the middle of things." I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did writing it. I had a lot of fun writing the action scenes and tried to make them as vivid and clear as possible, while also retaining the fluidity and precision from move to move; trying to ultimately flow seamlessly like my writing. I'd love to hear how you all felt about the first chapter, positive or negative. So please do leave a review, and I'll be sure to get to each and every one of them in my next chapter in my opening author's notes. Thank you all in advance – Deags.


	2. Chapter 2: From the Beginning

**A/N & Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights to any of the characters that are affiliated with _Sucker Punch Productions (2002-05)_, _Nihilistic Software (2011)_, and/or _Sanzaru Games (2012-Present)_. I do however, own their products and highly recommend to those who don't, to please support the creators of the franchise. The portrayal of their characters in this fan fiction is just that, of fiction; they do not in any way reflect the "actual-true fictional storyline" created by the *stated above* developers of the Sly Cooper franchise.

To **NinjaxSketcheartx – **Thanks you as usual for being the first to always review my work and I'm glad that I was able to make you "visualize it happening," however you are misunderstanding something. Sly wasn't knocked out in any form or manner; he only closed his eyes in acceptance of his death as Scar's razor is thrusted towards him. As you will see in this chapter, I basically made this story starting off in the middle of things to see if I can rope in an audience that would want for me to continue. With three reviews, I can at least feel confident that this story isn't being written in vain, although to be perfectly honest I'd like more reviews but you can't win them all.

Either way, this chapter will start at the beginning, and will eventually lead back up to the "present point in time" when he closes his eyes. Nothing special about Scar's legs, just very well trained. Savate users have extremely powerful kicks and because of their years of training, they lose all feeling in them, because of the constant kicking; it deadens the nerves in them. It'll be more realistic, sure, but I might sneak in some abilities of his, because it is Sly Cooper after all, but I won't have him turn invisible because of himself, but of some scientific manner or reason, you know that sort of thing. I'm glad you enjoyed it, and I'll be sure to update this one, as well as Sly as a Fox whenever I get around to it.

To **BananaB0mb – **Hey bud, thanks a lot for your review. I'm sorry if I in any form, "stole your thunder," and would recommend still writing a more gritty story, delving into another genre rather than continue the mundane and pedestrian ones you see on this site where it's all "Character A X Character B" fluff, it allows for you to grow as a writer and help you formulate ideas and experience you would never receive from conforming. Fear is a good motivator, you just need to be confident enough in yourself to not let that fear control you, and you control it. It sounds cliché I know, but it's true.

Thank you for your positive reviews towards my action scenes, as they were rather entertaining for me to write. A lot of the moves that Sly do, I've personally tried myself or at least dabble in, I'm no expert by any means, but I've taken at least a few lessons in my life for the sole purpose of using the experience as potential writing material (That's a form of initiative you can take in your own life). I can tell you from personal experience, that the moves that I've been writing about? Are rather effective and they friggin' hurt (trust me *ow ow ow*).

I hope the first person view isn't a negative point of the story from your point of view, but I believe it's more interesting to write in first person perspective. You begin to feel the pain of your character because he or she is essentially _you_. However it can lead to certain biases, because the protagonist is you, you want to win, you want to be the best, and that could lead to skewed perspectives.

Well sorry to say, you're going to have to wait as I begin the next chapters from the starting point, and eventually lead up to the part where the first chapter takes place, hopefully you'll still be around then. Thanks again for your review.

To **Aj – **I'm glad you enjoyed my story, this is the first time you've reviewed my stories I believe. I'm always honored to receive a new review from an interested fan of my work, please feel free to read my other Sly Cooper fan fiction entitled: _Sly as a Fox_, or if you have any interest in myths, feel free to read my Brobdingnagian take on Beowulf.

I'll also be sure to get right on it, and write up another chapter so that it can continue to hold your interest. I'll be sure to update as soon as possible with all my chapters, but I will have to alternate between my two Sly Cooper fan fictions. Thanks again for the review and I hope you continue along with the rest of your fellow readers and reviewers with this story.

Well that's all of my reviewers for the first chapter, I know you all get this a lot, but I cannot be more sincere when I say: "Thank you for reading and taking your time to review, hopefully there will others that feel the initiative to also write a positive or even a negative review to the likes and dislikes of my story. It not only just helps myself, but also yourself as readers/writers become more eloquent with words by being able to act as a community and create a forum for our audiences to interact with one another."

With that said and done, please enjoy chapter two.

**Chapter Two:** From the Beginning

My target as identified by the gang was a hulking tiger that went by "Scar." His real name was Malakh Solomon; he had earned his moniker from the long skin deformation of the same name that ran from his left eyebrow to his cheek.

By the way I saw it, saving Scar from the guy I now thought of as "Super spy" would be doing myself as well as his handler's a favor. After all, Super spy could easily jeopardize his, as well as my mission by getting caught, or doing some other sloppy thing, which would lead to misunderstandings, suspicions, and accusations. Exactly the kind of things I would like to avoid.

I thought of this guy as Super spy because my suspicions about him had first jelled when I saw him the first time at the airport, and then again at the hotel. It could have been a coincidence but in my line of work, one doesn't believe in coincidences. It was further solidified when I saw him skulking about when I was doing my routine SDRs or "surveillance detection routes." He was oblivious to my presence but I was aware to his, I had to survey the area before I made my move against Scar, but wherever I went, Super spy was there.

The third time that I met Super spy was in the gym of the Macaw's Mandarin Oriental Hotel, where we were both staying, and where Scar was soon to arrive. I went in an hour after the gym had opened. I was happy to see that there were a number of fellow guests of the hotel in the gym along with Super spy; it would be less conspicuous to him that I was indeed a familiar face. He was avoiding the facility's tangle of Lifecycles and Cybex weight machines; instead he had focused on a series of physical _kata_, or forms. _So Super spy is trained in martial arts too, Karate it would seem like from his routine workout. _He was doing a series of punches, blocks, and kicks to the air that, to an untrained eye, would seem like an awkward dance routine. Actually, his moves were good. They were smooth, practiced, and powerful.

I do some similar solo exercises myself, from time to time, but nothing so formal and stylized. And when I do decide to work out, I don't do it in public. It draws too much attention, especially from someone who knows what to look for, someone like me.

In my line of work, drawing attention is a serious violation to the instilled laws of common sense, and therefore of survival, and sabotages the success of a mission. Because if someone notices you for one thing, he'll be inclined to look more closely, at which point he might notice something else. A pattern, which would have remained quietly hidden, might then begin to emerge, after which your cloak of anonymity will be methodically pulled apart, probably to be rewoven into something more closely resembling a shroud.

Super spy also stood out because of his physical characteristics. Super spy was the size of a defensive linesman; he was two-hundred and some odd pounds of solid mass, standing over six-foot-tall, which tends to stand out when you're surrounded by slender, short, Asiatic business types that visit here to get away from it work, and do a little bit of gambling. He had close-cropped black fur, with a pale white undertone underneath it, giving him a salt and pepper look.

Although I myself am not of Asian-descent, I still fit the role of a guest that wanted to escape from the mundane daily lifestyle of work, to grab a tipple at the afterhours _Dragon's Den_ bar in Macau, where, if one can manage to secure one of the coveted six seats in his hidden basement establishment, owner and bartender, Wei Shen, will recommend one of his rare bottling's to help melt away, however briefly, the world you came to him to forget. To indulge in one's dark, secret fantasies of hitting the big jackpot in the casinos, and getting a taste of the local cuisines, liquors, and women.

So between the conspicuous fur color, the sneaking around, and now the _kata_ moves, Super spy had managed to put himself on my radar screen, and it was then that I began to notice more. The most predominant thing was his habit of hanging around the hotel: the gym, the café, the terrace, the lobby, the bar inside the hotel. Wherever this weimaraner was from, he'd come a long way to reach Macau. His failure to get out and see the sights didn't make a lot of sense, unless he was waiting for someone.

Of course, I might have suffered from a similar form of conspicuousness. But I had a companion, a young French lynx, which made the "hanging around" behavior that I was exhibiting similarly to Super spy a little more explainable. Her name was Juliette, which I guess made me Romeo, or at least that's what she introduced herself as, from the escort agency through which I had hired her from. She was around the same age as me, in her mid-twenties. She was beautiful, surprisingly intelligent, and I was enjoying her company. With her next to me, it was much easier for me get around, using her as an excuse to visit areas that would have been suspicious if I were alone. Two lovers searching for a quiet place so that they can have some alone time together to reminisce, or a dark enough area to do something a little more daring.

We walked by the gym and I carefully logged in my peripheral vision that my new friend Super spy was in there doing another one of his routine workouts at the usual time, not slowing down or giving any sign I had any other intention besides using a new found shortcut to reach the lobby.

I asked Juliette that afternoon if she wouldn't mind shopping by herself for a little while. She smiled and told me she'd be delighted, which was probably the truth. She might have thought I was going off for a taste of the area's exotic buffet of prostitutes. No doubt she assumed I was married, and was in Macau to satiate whatever depraved lusts I was prevented from indulging upon when I was back home. She would associate my counter surveillance to that of simple paranoia and nervousness of a man fearing that he might get caught, and be exposed for what he truly was, an affair having pervert.

But I doubted she would have found the notion of additional philandering excessively shocking. Juliette worked in a line of work where she and all the other girls of her agency were professionally trained to smile, and act the submissive and ignorant role. The happier the client was, the more they would be lavished in materialistic things: new clothes, brand name bags, sport cars, and in one extreme case, a five-star hotel.

As I watched her walk out of the front entrance to catch a taxi service into the town, I felt a pang in my heart. Most of us would think of someone in Juliette's line of work as being anything but innocent, but the word "innocent" aptly described her. Her job was to offer me pleasure, and she was doing very well in that aspect, her company had been exquisite. However she was unaware of her role in my plot to get to Scar, and she was just as oblivious as Super spy to her situation in all of this. As much as I hated to use her, I'd just have to live with it.

I used the lobby and called room 709. There was no answer. This was a good sign, although not a hundred percent fool-proof, it was something I could work with. I returned to my room and picked up a few items I'll need for a quick look into Super spy's room. I rode the elevator to the eighth floor. From there, I took the stairs, the less trafficked route, and therefore the one less likely to present problems like witnesses. The hotel didn't have any cameras installed in the corridors of each floor, most likely to prevent the possibility of getting sued by guests being recorded when they were up to no good, rather than a protection of privacy.

Strapped to my wrist, concealed under the sleeve of my baggy windbreaker, was a device that looked like a large PDA. The device was a similar take on the Soldier Vision that was used by the military. It takes a radar "picture" of a room through walls, it emits a pulse that tracks the feedback it receives when it hits a solid object, like a wall for instance, and it takes that information and creates an image on the wrist unit. It was initially deployed during the Gulf war, where soldiers needed to see what was behind a door, an empty room, or a room full of insurgents. Only except, that my version of it was more advance than the ones you'll see in the military, I have some tech savants that were able to improve on the original, and create this little number, which we promptly named it "Cooper Vision." Imagine a device that allows the user to have X-ray vision, and sonar echolocation.

Once I confirmed that everything within the room posed no threat, I looked carefully around the door. I had to make sure Super spy didn't put some form of entry detection technique that would alert him that someone was in his room. However, I wasn't after anything that would take me more than a few minutes, a simple in and out job. Once he realizes that nothing of value was moved or searched, he'll just assume it was the cleaning service doing their daily room cleaning, and deem the person wasn't a _persona non grata_.

Earlier in my stay I had taken the trouble of securing a master key for just this sort of occasion, although at the time it was Scar I had in mind, not Super spy. The hotel used punched-hole mechanical plastic key cards, the kind that looked like plain gray credit cards with specific patterns of holes cut into them. The hotel used a now-a-days common system whereby the key had to be inserted into a wall slot next to the door for the room lights to become operable. When you withdrew the key in preparation for leaving the room, there was about a one-minute delay before the lights would go out. The same key was used to operate the door mechanism, and each room was key specific, unless you held a master key. The maids of the hotel carried them, of course, and it had been easy enough to walk past a room that was being cleaned, pull the maid's master key from the reader, make an impression in a chunk of molding clay one could pick up at your local toy store, replace the key, and slip out unnoticed, all in a matter of seconds. All I had to do was use the impression in the clay, and punch the additional holes in my room key, fill in the inappropriate ones with fast-setting epoxy clay, and _voilà_, I had the same access as the hotel staff.

Once I was sure that there was nothing, I slipped on gloves and readjusted the sleeves of my windbreaker to overlap them, no sense in leaving evidence behind. I inserted the "master" key, and was satisfied to hear the internal workings of the digital card reader identifying the type of key being inserted, and the result being the sound of locks being released and the indication of "good to go" with the universal symbol of the green light. I carefully opened the door and made sure to take a look behind me, down both ends of the corridor, to make sure the coast was clear before entering.

I did a quick once over around the room and immediately found the safe. I went over, and from my bag that I had with me attached to my leg, pulled out a small aluminum spray bottle, and spritzed the keypad of the safe. I waited a minute for the chemical known as "DFO" or 1, 8-Diazafluoren-9-one, to set before I pulled out a miniature black light wand, and illuminated the keypad with it. The DFO had done its job, it's a common chemical used to detect the natural oils we secrete on the porous level, and when shown under a blue or green light, it turns white.

I mumbled to myself the numbers that lit up brighter than Times Square. "One…four… eight… and nine." I tried a number of combinations with the four digits; it wasn't until my fifth attempt with "8149" did the safe finally unlocked. I looked inside and gingerly removed its contents. There was a wallet, a cellphone, and a watch. It was suggested to leave all your valuables in your room, as the hotel was not held responsible for items that are lost or stolen when using their facilities.

I skimmed through his wallet, no identification, just a couple of thousand in a number of different Asian currencies: Hong Kong dollars, Taiwanese Dollars Singaporean Dollars, and Macanese Pataca. I then picked up his cellphone and powered it on, there was a blue screen with four empty white boxes, and on the bottom it asked for a pin code. I thought about it for a second, and then punched in 8149. The screen unlocked and the sound of it being successfully turned on and the cellphone logo showed up on the screen. _When choosing between convenience and security, everybody chooses convenience._

I took out a cellphone of my own and an adapter cable. I connected both cellphones to one another with the cable. I punched a few commands and sequences on mine, and soon a loading bar popped up. I was cloning his phone; it'll take about two minutes for the cellphones to sync. I walked over to the phone and called for room service, promptly after the first ring a Filipina-accented voice said, "Yes, Mr. Conrad, how may I help you today?"

"Oh, I think I must have hit the wrong button. Sorry to bother you."

"Not at all, sir. Have a pleasant day."

I hung up. Mr. Conrad then. I nodded to myself.

A soft beep alerted me to the completion of cloning. I pulled out a handkerchief and carefully and methodically wiped down every surface I had touched: The phone, the cellphone, the wallet, the watch, the safe, and took special care to clean up the DFO off of the keypad. I double checked to see if the cloning process had successfully taken place, and when satisfied I powered down his phone, and replaced everything back into its rightful place; it was as if I was never here.

I did a quick mental run through from the very moment I stepped into the room, everything was clear. I strolled back to the door and used the Cooper vision to see if the coast was clear, I opened the door carefully, wiping the handle as I did so, and slipped out as it closed behind me. The whole thing had taken just under ten minutes.

Scar arrived early that evening. I was enjoying a drink with Juliette in the lobby, where I had a view of the registration desk, and made him in an instant. He was huge. I put him at about six-foot-two, but surprisingly enough he wasn't as massive as Super spy, where Super spy was more bulk and heft, Scar was dense, and of a muscular build. He was wearing an expensive-looking navy colored suit; from the cut it seemed to be personally hand tailored to fit his physique, and a white shirt open at the collar. In his left hand he gripped the handle of what looked like a computer briefcase, something in black leather, and I caught a flash of gold chain encircling his wrist. But despite the clothes, the accessories, the jewelry, there was no element of fussiness about him. On the contrary: his presence was relaxed, and powerful. He looked like the kind of tiger who wouldn't have to raise his voice when speaking to his subordinates, who would command the attention of strangers with only a look or a gesture. Someone who wouldn't need to threaten violence to get what he wanted, if only because the hint of it would always be there, in the set of his posture, the look in his eyes, the tone of his voice.

Even from this distance, the feeling I get off of him, his "aura" if you will, would have been enough for me to identify him even without the case file I had liberated from the CIA database. He was with two large wolves, also in suits, which I made as bodyguards. One of them started a visual security sweep, but Scar didn't rely on him. Instead, he did his own evaluation of the room and its occupants. I watched in my peripheral vision, and when I saw that he was finished and had turned his attention to the front desk, I looked over again.

A striking female had just come through the front doors. She was wearing a black pant suit and pumps. Practical, but classy. What you'd see on a traveler carrying a first-class ticket. She was tall; too, maybe five-nine, five-ten, with long legs that looked good even in pants, and a ripe, voluptuous body. A porter followed her in, gripping a pair of large Vuitton bags. He paused near her and leaned forward to ask something. She raise a hand to indicate that he should wait, then started her own visual sweep of the room. I hadn't expected that, and quickly returned my attention to Juliette until her gaze had passed over us. When I glanced over again, she was standing beside Scar, her arm linked through his.

Something about her presence was as relaxed and in tune with his. Everything about her seemed natural: her hair, her face, and the curves beneath her clothes.

A minute later, she returned her attention back to the porter and spoke briefly, before the porter, herself, and one of the bodyguards headed toward the elevators. Scar and the other bodyguard remained at the front desk, discussing something with the receptionist.

The front door opened again, I glanced up and saw Super spy.

_Christ, _I thought. _The gang's all here._ I wondered half-consciously whether he'd been tipped off somehow. I kept him in my line of sight as Super spy walked slowly through the lobby. I saw his gaze move from one to another, as he must have made a mental note of Scar's two bodyguards whom I now affectionately deemed them: Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, before he set his gaze on Scar. His eyes harden in a way that would mean nothing to most people but what meant a great deal to me. From his gaze I understood that Super spy wasn't looking at another guest, no, what he saw instead was a hunter acquiring his target.

I felt a wave of nausea, thinking: _there's no way Super spy would do it right here and now… right?_ But that feeling soon subsided as he simply walked by and continued his way to the elevator. Scar and his bodyguard finished whatever they were discussing and heading for the elevator. After they were gone I gave them five minutes before I made my move.

I told Juliette that I needed to use the lavatories and would be right back. Instead I went to a house phone and asked the operator to connect me to the Macaw suite. There were only two suites in the hotel, the Macaw and the Oriental, and judging from his appearance, I had a feeling Scar would be occupying one of them.

No answer at the Macaw. I tried again, this time asking for the Oriental.

"Allo," a male voice answered.

"Hello, this is the front desk," I said, doing a passable impromptu Asiatic accent. "Is there anything else we can do to make Mr. Sc…" I managed to catch myself in time. "Solomon's stay with us more enjoyable?"

"No, we're fine," the voice responded.

"Very good," I said. "Please, enjoy your stay." And I hung up.

I breathed a deep breath, held it, and let it out through my nose. Now that everyone was here, time to get this show on the road. I pulled out my handkerchief for show, and walked back out of corridor that connected with the restrooms. I pretended to dry my hands before re-pocketing the cloth; I looked around the room as if I had forgotten the position of the lavatories in relation to where I previously was. When from across the lobby, Juliette raised her arm to grab my attention, and I walked over to her.

"_Désolé, j'espère que vous n'avez pas eu à attendre longtemps,_" – Sorry, I hope you did not have to wait long – I smiled a warm smile.

"_Pas du tout_," – not at all – she greeted my smile with her own.

"Now shall we go? Our dinner reservation waits."

I offered her my arm and she took it, locking hers with mine.


	3. Chapter 3: A Night Out

**A/N & Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights to any of the characters that are affiliated with _Sucker Punch Productions (2002-05)_, _Nihilistic Software (2011)_, and/or _Sanzaru Games (2012-Present)_. I do however, own their products and highly recommend to those who don't, to please support the creators of the franchise. The portrayal of their characters in this fan fiction is just that, of fiction; they do not in any way reflect the "actual-true fictional storyline" created by the *stated above* developers of the Sly Cooper franchise.

To **NinjaxSketcheartx – **Well you're just going to have to wait and see which character is reoccurring or just an extension for a bigger picture. Yes, this is in a way similar to Sly 3 but originally I wanted to see if any readers would be interested in my story if I left it at a major cliffhanger. Well, don't do anything that would upset your father, but it's always great that whenever I see that "review" number go up, I know it's from you, so thank you for that. Hopefully you'll be first again for this chapter.

To **Bananab0mb – **Thank you, it's always great to read a positive review. Text is rather ambiguous, so I always like to be as accurate, concrete, and paint a vivid picture so that there no misinterpretations of the various uses and technicalities that revolves around this story. I'd love to read your story that is "darker and more serious," feel free to send me a personal message or E-mail me if you want to bounce some ideas around for your story. As you know, I've helped ForeverFreelancer with her stories, and she seems to appreciate and improved as a writer as we went along, pinging back and forth from one another. But thank you for your positive and consistent review. Hope you enjoy this chapter as well.

I might put off doing chapter four, to pick up my first Sly Cooper fan fiction: _Sly as a Fox_. As I have not given it my attention for the longest of times. Anyway, with that said and done, enjoy chapter 3.

**Chapter Three:** _A night out_

That night, while Juliette was out, I sat in the hotel room with the television blaring. I didn't very much care for what was on; just needed some background noise to drown out the boredom. I was sitting in the chair next to the window at the corner of the room, with two cellphones out on the table in front of me, one of which, was connected to a laptop. I continued to flip through the channels, staring blanking at the idiot box until the screen of my phone lit up, telling me I was receiving a call. I sat up in my chair, and reached over the table and looked at the ID and saw that it had no visible number displayed with the words: "unknown caller," in bold print.

I sighed. I weighed the pros and cons in my head while the screen continued to glow. There were only a few seconds left before it would send the caller to voicemail, which if it did, would be extremely unprofessional, and would ultimately annoy the caller… let's wait a bit.

I counted aloud. "1…2….3" and pressed the standard green "accept call" button. "Luna pizza, what is your order?"

There was a pause. "W…what?" I smirked, imaging him looking at his own phone to make sure he dialed the right number. "Very funny," he said sourly, confirming that image. "What's your status Sly?"

I suppressed a laugh. "Nothing has happened since you called me the night before. I told you I would update you when I have something new, or if anything changes." I responded.

"That's not what we agreed upon Sly, and you know it. You are to contact me every twenty-four hours, keeping me up-to-date no matter how insignificant those twenty-four hours were, it's not up to you to decide, but me."

He was trying to throw his weight and authority around, cute. "Don't you mean the agency? Oh wait, I forgot, you're going against orders to 'cease and desist on all actions that are deemed hostile to Solomon.'" There was a grunt, and the obvious sound of exhaling when one is put in an unfavorable situation on his end of the line.

I continued, not letting him regain his composure. "You came to _me_. So don't even think that you and I are equals. In fact, the illusion you seem to be creating for yourself about having any authority over me, you best snap the hell out of it. I agreed to your request only because of our past together, and after this is done, we are to never meet again. If I have the slightest suspicion that you are trying to find me when this is all over, I will end you like Scar." I threatened coldly.

There was no response. It was so quiet in fact, that I thought he had hung up. But I knew he was still there, what I had just said did what it was supposed to do: assert that there is no master and slave dynamic, but a business transaction regarding a life.

"Be that as it may," He finally responded. "We had an agreement of twenty-four hours. Or are you not a Raccoon of your word?" _Touché._ Instead of backing down, he instead stood up and bore his fangs, attacking my code of honor.

The one I was having a "pleasant" chat with was a Terrapin that went by the name of Bentley. When I was forced into an orphanage at a young age due to the loss of my parents, it was there that I met him. He is a turtle who was gifted from birth with great intelligence, which is probably why he went into the CIA, the _Central Intelligence Agency_ when he was old enough. From what I've gathered from personal experience, and from his agency file that I managed to lift from them, is that Bentley is skilled with computers, gadgets, and explosives; primarily helping the agency with reconnaissance and mission-planning while other agents are out in the field. We didn't leave on bad terms the last time we met. He went down his route in life and I went down my own. His, one of justice, and mine a life of crime.

We hadn't spoken to one another for a little over half a decade. That drastically changed when he suddenly showed up at my home that I had purchased under one of my false aliases in France completely out of blue. As a master criminal, to be located and even confronted by an officer of the law, especially in _my own home_, I can tell you that I wasn't exactly happy with his adept skills as a detective. _I'll have to inquire about that… about how exactly he found me; one way or another he will tell me._

Bentley, although not a high ranking officer back at Langley, he was still high enough to have access to sensitive case files. Imagine his surprise when he found out that he didn't have the clearance to access the servers to look up our mutual friend, Scar. Bentley had informed me of his situation. That Malakh Solomon or "Scar" was on America's most wanted list, along with a number of other countries' most wanted lists. He had some inside information about a pending trip Scar was about to make to Macau for "business." However, when he was researching about him in the CIA database, all of his information was sealed, and that he was "flagged." He was called to his superior's office and was simply given a "cease and desist" order from the higher ups, and to let them handle it. He explained his situation, and was only given an ominous message in response: _We know._

Calling Bentley a genius was a mistake. Simply calling him a genius was like saying the Mars rover Curiosity landing was "a step forward", it would be doing them both an injustice. Bentley was leagues ahead of everyday "genius." If he were to step to the dark side like I had; there would be thunder and lightning in the background as he laughed manically as he develops another "death" machine of some shape or form as he held the entire world hostage for a large random.

Bentley had hacked his way into the logs of the CIA and noticed that no one from the CIA was assigned to the Scar case, even after he exhaustedly explained the urgency of the insider information. _It was as if no one cared to do anything to stop him_. The information that he was given, stated that Scar was in Macau for a business trip, with a man like Scar that could range from anything from Anthropomorphic trafficking, to arms dealings; nothing was off limits to him. Yet no one at the agency was lifting a finger to stop him. Bentley decided it was up to him to stop Scar by any means possible. Which is why he came to me.

"So what have you learned in the last twenty-four hours?"

I sighed, back to the present. I used my free hand to rub my temples. I contemplated whether or not to inform him about "Super spy," but again; I've never believed in coincidences. I couldn't rule out that the whole sob story Bentley told me was just an elaborate ruse to flush me out. There was also the chance that Bentley, or even the CIA itself had sent a "B-team" after scar. There was no denying that Scar was indeed better off rubbed out of our existence, but I'm no saint myself; meaning that there could be a similar bulls eye on me.

"I've already told you what you needed to know, there hasn't been any new developments."

There was a pause. "Fine," He said exasperated. "But you _will_ inform me if something does happen, right?"

I laughed. He always did hate to be left out of the loop, ever since we were kids. "Maybe."

I imaged a cartoonish vein throbbing as I got underneath his skin as a frustrated groan escaped his lips. "I'll be sure to let you know. After all, I do want to get paid."

"Good… good." He said twice, hearing the relief in his voice.

The second phone on the table began to vibrate and I picked it up. "Listen, I have to go. I'll be sure to inform you everything that happens the next time you call." I could hear the sounds of protest on the other end, but I had already hung up. I purged the memory of the phone, and held the "end" key to power it down. I took out the battery and removed its SIM card; all of it was a safety precaution, so that I wouldn't leave a trail for anyone to find me. By turning off the phone and removing the battery and card, it makes it impossible to triangulate your position. I hit the "call" button on the second phone. I hit a few key commands on the laptop the phone was connected to and had a piece of tape, taped over the mouth piece so I could listen in without risking being heard. I put the phone to my ear.

"_Allo_," I heard him say. A pause, then, "_Bien._" French, then, I sighed with relief. I had feared with a name like "Conrad," he would be speaking German. _Was that CNN in the background?_

There was a slight hum coming from the laptop, and I took a glance at the screen: _Allo, comment allez-vous, bien. _The laptop was taking the digitized message it receives from the vibration of the transceiver in the phone, and creates a transcript of the conversation. On the laptop the words: _sampling phonemes now…_ appeared on the screen. It detected, recorded, and processed the phonetic language as "French."

"_Oui, il est arrivé ce soir_." – yes, he arrived tonight –

Another pause. Then, "_Pas ce soir_." – Not tonight –

Pause. Then, "_Oui, la reunion est ce soir. __Ensuite cela_." – Yes, the meeting is tonight. Then after that. –

Pause. The conversation continued in this manner for another few minutes, followed by, "_Tout va bein,_" – everything is fine – "_Je vais le faire maintenant."_ – I'll do that now - and finally "_Je vous ferai savoir quand ce sera fait_." – I'll let you know when it's done."

Click. And the call ended. _Shit, it sounds like he's making a move._

I grabbed my dark windbreaker from the closet space, and took the stairs to the ground floor. A professional could be expected to use the rear entrance, which would represent the less trafficked, less predictable alternative, and I ducked out through the back doors on the assumption that this was the route Super spy would be using. There were three exits back here – one from the hotel, one from the beauty parlor, and one from the restaurant – but all of them fed into the same courtyard, which in turn fed onto a single walkway, meaning a single choke point.

There was an open-air parking garage next to the hotel. I walked into it and hugged the wall, obscured by bushes lining the wall's exterior.

He appeared a minute after I'd gotten in position. The streetlights illuminated him and cast shadows into the garage where I stood silently by. I watched him stroll past me down the tree-lined walkway in the direction of the _Avenida da Amizade_, named, like most of Macau's thoroughfares, by the Portuguese centuries earlier. The soft drape of his navy sport jacket was too stylish for his surroundings. I had learned to blend in, and was almost "slacker casual."

Past the garage he turned right into an alley. I glanced back at the hotel exit, all quiet. So far he seemed to be alone, with no counter surveillance to his rear. I moved out to follow him. He reached the _Avendia da Amizade_, and waited for a break in the traffic before crossing. I hung back in the shadows and waited.

On the other side of the street he turned left, looking back over his shoulder, as any pedestrian would, to check for oncoming traffic before crossing. I permitted myself the trace of a smile. His "traffic check" was an unobtrusive bit of counter surveillance. It was nicely done, casual, and I saw from the quality of the move that I was probably going to have a hard time following him solo.

He moved down the wide boulevard in the direction of the Hotel Lisboa, the territory's biggest casino and best-known trolling ground for prostitutes, and after a moment I crossed the street and trailed after him. The streetlights around us were widely spaced, with ample pools of darkness between them for concealment, and Super spy couldn't have spotted me even had he looked backward to do so.

He continued to walk for another few hundred meters further, before veering off from street level down the steps that led to an underground tunnel passageway. I knew through my data gathering that the passageway was "H" shaped, that bridged in the middle perpendicular beneath it. As he went down the steps, I counted to ten before I moved in quickly to close the gap, and arrived at the entrance in time to see him disappearing into the middle of the tunnel and under the street.

Now I was faced with a dilemma. If I followed him in and he glanced back, he would make me. If I stayed put and he continued to the opposite side of the street, and had a change of pace, I'd lose him.

I thought for a moment. Weighing both sides of the argument, and I took special note that his counter surveillance had been subtle, disguised as ordinary pedestrian behavior. But he was abandoning that subtlety in this abrupt sudden change of venue. He knew what he was doing. The question was, which way would he play it? Double back, to catch a follower? Or hurry out the other side, to lose him?

_Times like this I this I really wish I had been working with a team, or even just a teammate, there wouldn't have been a problem._ I trusted my gut instinct and I moved past the passageway on the right, hiding in the shadows of one of the nearby palm trees, hoping I was right.

Ten seconds went by. Twenty.

If I had been wrong, this was my last chance to try to leave from my post and give chase.

Thirty. If I waited until he had emerged, he would see me coming.

_Just another second, just another second, c'mon, asshole where are you…_

Boom, there he was, moving up the vertical side of the H, still on my side of the street. I let out a long, quiet breath. I did another ten count to allow Super spy to develop a fair distance between us. But mainly to allow my adrenaline and heartbeat to drop.

I continued to follow him until we reached Senado Square, the area's main pedestrian shopping commons. I glanced around and took notice of the pastel-colored porticos that are affiliated with the Portuguese-style store fronts, the loud and boisterous sounds of hundreds, thousands of Asians speaking in mutually incomprehensible tongues, the smells of roasted pork and sticky glutinous rice wafted on the air, it was a feast for the senses. Thick groups of shoppers drifted back and forth around us, chatting, laughing, and enjoying the comfortable atmosphere that carefree camaraderie brought with it that evening.

We continued out of Senado and onto quieter streets. Leaving the crowded, business established areas to one of street stalls that sold fruits, lingerie, traditional Thai costumes; Super spy was browsing among them. He strolled past and continued up a long stoned path walkway that continued for a distance. He was heading in the direction of St. Paul's, the site of a once splendid Portuguese church, ravaged over the centuries by fire after fire, and standing there, a sad façade, a haunted relic, a hallowed shell of a once divine and holy place. It was in a state of disrepair, the grounds, once fitted with beautiful marble and cobblestone, now chipped, blackened, and weeds growing everywhere.

We continued onwards, from the big Hakka cuisines, to the night market, and now the residential area. I didn't like where this was going. I instinctively scanned around, and nothing seemed out of the normal. There were four elderly cats absorbed in a game of mahjong, one of them screaming "Wu!" indicating that she had just gathered the last title she needed to win the hand; another group paying patronage to a shrine, its red paint peeling in the tropical moisture and of years of maintenance neglect. I was curious what business could he have here of all places, and I noticed that he hadn't looked back once ever since the stunt he pulled at the underground passageway, Super spy must have been proud of that provocative stunt, and decided he was fine. Which was a reasonable assumption, anyone with less experience would have most definitely fallen prey to that aggressive move. Hell, _I_ would have fallen for it if my instincts didn't warn me otherwise.

Super spy reached the corner of the street and turned right. In this warren of dim alcoves and alleyways, I could easily lose him if he developed distance, and I increased my pace to stay with him. I turned the same corner he had gone past a moment earlier, and nearly ran right into him.

He'd turned the corner and stopped, a classic counter surveillance move, and hard to beat if you're working solo. _No wonder he'd been taking it easy. The tunnel stunt had been a false finish to the run, and I'd fallen for it. Shit. _

I felt my heart beat rising, and an adrenaline dump. Audio faded out. Movement slowed down.

Our eyes locked, and for a suspended second we stood totally still. I saw his brow begin to furrow, _I've seen this guy,_ I knew he was thinking. _At the hotel._

I saw a sudden shift in his weight, it all moved to his back leg. He shifted into a defensive stance. His body contorted and his left hand reached inside into his right breast pocket.

Toward a weapon, no doubt. _God damn it. _

I stepped in with my right leg to close the distance, and grabbed his wrist that disappeared underneath his jacket. He tried to use his free arm to shove me away, but I stepped in and planted my left foot behind his heel, using him as an anchor. I wrenched his hand violently upwards and back, and he screamed in pain. Thankfully his hand was still empty. I felt him lower his center of gravity, and I followed suit. I knew a punch was coming so I relaxed my body just as he let out a _kiai_ – a battle cry – and drilled a punch into my gut. I let out an involuntary "oof" as the air escaped from my body. I had absorbed the damage rather than taking the brunt of it, but it still hurt like hell. He tried to do it again, but enough was enough. With my right hand I took hold of his left lapel and thrust it up under his chin. His reaction was good: he stepped back with his left leg to regain his balance, and open up distance. But I wasn't going to give him that chance. I caught his right heel with my right foot and used my fist in his throat to shove him back. Surprised, he tried to center his gravity again, but it was too late. His balance ruined and his foot trapped, he went straight back, his left arm pin wheeling useless1ly. I maintained my tight hold on his right arm and as we fell. I landed on top of him, my elbow positioned squarely over his diaphragm, nailing him hard as we hit the pavement. His right leg was pinned underneath himself.

I scrambled to his right side, raised my right hand high, and shot a fist to his nose. He turned his head and deflected the blow with his left hand. His reactions were good.

However, he was still out of his element on the ground, I've studied various forms of martial arts, and I'm certain that karate didn't have any _kata_ that starts in a pinned stance. He went for a weapon again and I swam my right arm underneath his, and again, jerked it backwards. I sat on his chest, and with my left knee, pinned his right arm down, I shifted my weight forward, and I wrapped my left arm underneath his head and grabbed hold of his face, wrenching it downwards to the left. I slammed his left arm to the ground; something was knocked free of his hand and scraped across the pavement. I then pinned his left arm with my right. With all but one appendage pinned in some shape or form, he was done.

"Who are you working for?" I said.

In response, he only struggled. I craned his neck harder to the left, but quickly relaxed it, lest he conclude that I was trying to finish him, in which case I couldn't reasonably expect him to cooperate.

He got the message and the struggling stopped. "_Je ne comprends pas," _I heard him say, his body tense in my grip.

_Bullshit you don't comprehend pal, _I thought. _I heard you watching CN F***ing N._

"_Pour qui travaillez-vous?"_ I tried asking.

"_Je ne comprends pas," _he said again.

_All right, the hell with it._ I pulled downwards again, this time for a longer period of time and harder than before.

"Last time," I said in English. "Tell me who you work for, or you're done."

"All…all right," He grunted in between his strained breaths, his face was flushed red. His voice was muffled by my grip preventing oxygen to flow properly. I leaned forward slightly to hear better.

As I did so, he arched into me and jerked sharply upward with his right arm, trying to get up. I had to shift my weight into my left knee to stabilize myself, his right arm got free and shot into his left pocket. _Shit, what are you? An armory?_ I instinctively used my dominate right hand to stop his from grabbing whatever he was reaching for. But that was a feint, when I successfully got his arm pinned underneath his jacket, in my peripheral vision I saw his left arm shoot for something. I heard the sound of something unbuttoning and looked down in time to see a leather lapel being popped over and in his hand he produced a double-edge steel blade.

_F***. _I didn't have time to disarm him, so in one swift movement I pulled down as hard as I could and heard the loud crack of his neck being snapped. His body spasmed beneath me and the knife clattered noisily to the ground beside him.

I laid him out on the pavement and quickly patted him down. My hands were shaking from the effects of adrenaline. I was suddenly aware of my heart, pounding crazily inside of me. Damn, that had been a nice move; he'd nearly gotten away with it.

He was traveling light, no wallet, no ID. Just his hotel key in his pants pocket with the room number scratched off. I carefully opened up his jacket to see what in the world he was grabbing for. A Heckler & Koch Mark 23. Attached to it, a Knights Armament suppressor. I glanced over to the right and saw that it was another knife that had skidded across the pavement in our scuffle.

He had a knife in his lapel, a knife in his right breast pocket, and a silenced H&K in his left jacket breast pocket holster. I doubted that he just waltzed through airport security on his way to Macau, although I supposed it was possible the security guards were too preoccupied with nail clippers, cuticle scissors, and half empty bottles of refreshments to notice.

I cursed under my breath. There was nothing else that I could do now to find out that he was or who had sent him, or even who he had been planning to meet.

I stood and glanced around me. Left, right, center. Nothing. The street was empty and the air was silent.

I moved off the street, and into the shadows constantly scanning around for any signs of movement. I left the weapons there, not wishing to contaminate myself with anything connected to what the police might find at the crime scene. After a while, my breathing and pulse reached normal levels.

I zigzagged along a channel of a steep ravine, traversed through a dark urban gorge, and navigated through a maze of faded concrete alleyways of the residential area. Above me on the rusted fire escapes were escarpments of rock, the hanging laundry tangled vines, a lone sodium-arc roof light a yellowed, gibbous moon.

I made my way back to the hotel. By the time I reached the rear entrance, I had composed myself back into my tourist façade and walked in as if coming back from a night out. My thoughts couldn't help but lead to Scar. _Right, Scar. The main event. No more sideshows, I'll get in close, do it right, and get out_. After that, a big pay day. Big enough so that afterword I can find a new place of residence, away from the contaminated remains of my home in Paris. This time I'll find a nice place away from the metropolis, someplace reserved and quiet. Where no unexpected guests pop up to offer me a job.

I sighed. _A Raccoon can dream at least._

**A/N: **Well that was chapter three. Hopefully it was entertaining to my readers, and interesting enough to provoke a new reviewer or two. I've started taking French this semester in college, so I apologize if my French is weird. If there is anyone out there that can correct it, feel free to do so in a personal message or a review. As stated above, I think I'll work on my first Sly Cooper story: _Sly as a Fox_ before coming back to this one, unless my reviewers would prefer one over the other. Either way I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, and I hope you'll all enjoy it. I'll see you in the next chapter. – J.L


	4. Chapter 4: Kindred Spirit

**A/N & Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights to any of the characters that are affiliated with _Sucker Punch Productions (2002-05)_, _Nihilistic Software (2011)_, and/or _Sanzaru Games (2012-Present)_. I do however, own their products and highly recommend to those who don't, to please support the creators of the franchise. The portrayal of their characters in this fan fiction is just that, of fiction; they do not in any way reflect the "actual-true fictional storyline" created by the *stated above* developers of the Sly Cooper franchise.

To **NinjaxSketcheartx – **Well as your review was rather short I shall do my best to expand on the questions and things you've brought up. I'm glad you like their estranged relationship, as I have decided to change up their usual one and create a more dynamic take on it. And I just wanted to let you know I've done a double release, and have also typed out the twelfth installment of Sly as a Fox, so be sure to read and review that whenever you're able.

To **Bananab0mb – **No no, I assure you that he is very much deceased. No clone or decoy. Same as above, I've made a double release, so be sure to read both new chapters. Cheers! See you next chapter!

That was possibly the shortest response I've ever done for reviewers ever on this site. I take it this story, seeing as there isn't any fluff that appeals towards a younger audience I won't be receiving too many readers or reviewers. Shame really, I think this story has merit and potential. Anyway, with all that said and done, here is chapter four of: _Heart of Darkness_, enjoy.

**Chapter Four:** _Kindred Spirit_

The next Morning, I woke up and did my routine exercises. After my shower, I put in the SIM card, the battery, powered on the cell phone I had on the table. I entered my passcode, and a small indicator flashed across my screen in the form of an envelope. I hit the necessary commands to access my text messaging logs, and opened up the single message left for me during the time I had the phone disassembled, it simply read: "Call me." I stared at the short message, and did the only reasonable thing to do. I powered off the cell phone and went down for breakfast.

I enjoyed another leisurely breakfast in the hotel's café, and then whiled away an hour browsing the hotel shops, all of which offered splendid views of the lobby. But Scar never showed. Around noon, I met up with Juliette and we went around the main casinos and shopping districts. Later that afternoon I asked if she would like to grab a bite to eat, to which of course she agreed. I inquired about which restaurant she would prefer to dine in, but she surprised me by saying she wanted us to try out the local cuisine. I saw no harm in this, and decided to take her up on the offer.

I had actually forgotten that although Juliette was a Parisian, the service I had hired her from was stationed in Macau, which goes to prove how professional the ladies were to make you forget such an important fact. She brought me to Senado Square, where we entered a small locale and took a table near the back. I looked around, and couldn't help feel a little out of place. Surrounding us, were the local Macanese population in their t-shirts and shorts, speaking in their native tongues, while Juliette and I were in an assortment of brand name goods. There were glances towards our direction, but nothing more. I met their glances with a warm smile, in which they return with one of their own, and the occasional friendly wave.

Probably sensing my confusion, Juliette placed her hands atop of mine.

She held it there, and said "Relax. I come here often."

I raised my eyebrow in a quizzical manner. "You? Here. Really?"

She laughed, "Me. Here, yes."

Before I had time to ask in a more coherent manner, a male in a grease stained smock came up to our table, and in broken Macanese Chinese-English asked for our orders, "Hallo, what you order? I see you not from here, everything here very good. Beu-ti-full lady, and handsome man, you married? What you want, I'll be sure to get every-ting right. Only the best, for such a lovely cup-pol."

I looked over the menu and was dismayed when I saw that it was all in _Doci Papiaçam _or "Sweet speech" a nickname which poets gave to the Macanese language, which was a mix of Chinese and Portuguese.

"It…it all just looks so good, I don't know what to choose. Why don't you order first, dear?"

She saw through my discomfort and couldn't help but smile. "Why don't I order for the both of us sweetie."

I conceded and allowed her to do just that. She impressed me by spouting out random phonetic syllables which apparently when spoken back to back, actually meant something in Macanese. We continued small talk until our food was prepared and brought to us. Along with each additional dish that was brought to our table, she would point at it with her chopstick and would go into detail about: what it is, what is in it, how it was prepared, in great detail and all I had to contribute to the conversation was: "Oh, that's interesting," and "That's tasty!" Needless to say, it wasn't exactly the highlight of my culinary education.

"_Wong Chi Kei_ which is a signature dish in Macau. It is shrimp roe noodles cooked al dente, and sprinkled with salty shrimp roe." She would say, and I'll contribute with "the noodles are a bit too firm for me."

"_Minchee_ is a dish made from minced or ground meat. They take beef or pork and flavored it with molasses and soy sauce; they serve it with a fried egg on top." She'd educate me, and I'll be too busy with a mouthful of food to be able to respond to her properly.

"This is a pork chop bun. Very crispy outside, very soft on the inside, it has pan fried pork in the middle, glazed in a flavorful meat sauce. This is probably the most common and most famous item in Macau." She'd explain before picking up one of the buns the size of orange and chowing into it, and gesturing me to do the same.

"Now, for dessert. This is a Portuguese egg tart, it is a soft caramelized egg custard filled in a crisp puff pastry case. It's sweet and very rich and flavorful, and the one that is on your side is _Douhua_. It's a tofu pudding. They add liquid sugar syrup and soy milk and a very delish dessert."

She gingerly ate her egg tart, making sure to only use her thumb and index finger, and carefully positioned herself over her plate to catch the crumbs. I did something similar to that, and by "something similar" I mean I popped the entire tiny morsel into my mouth to tease Juliette about her delicate manner of eating. She smiled and threw one of her unused napkins at me. This apparently allowed her to forget about eating etiquette as she gestured to my unfinished _Douhua._ I returned with a _go ahead_ gesture, and she removed my spoon and brought the bowl to her mouth and gulped down the rest.

"Atta girl." I said to her, and we both laughed.

I paid the bill and left a generous tip, and we both bid the owner and the waiter that served us a good night, and thanks for the wonderful meal. We left the place linking arms, and I suggested that we take a small leisure stroll to aid our digestion of the feast we just partook in. As we did so, I did my subtle counter surveillance as we walked and talked.

"So, you go there often?" I asked steering out conversation to her display of knowledge of Macau.

"It's a quiet place, the atmosphere and the diners are really nice. I like to go there." She replied.

"When you're not hired to be an escort."

I felt her body go rigid for a moment, before she relaxed back again. All she said in response was "yes."

"So why did you bring me there tonight? It's not exactly a place I'd expect to see you, or any of the people who would use your service would be."

She unhooked my arm and stopped walking. I turned around to face her.

"_Je ne sais pas"_ – I don't know – she responded back in French. "There's something about you, which is a lot like me." She stated, although she couldn't put her thumb on it.

"There's just something about you," she repeated. "That gives off the feeling that you don't really live, _this_ life. As if you are part of a whole other world, like me." she said softly.

"It's because of business that I'm here." I said solemnly.

"Business," she said to herself. "That's it, we're both only here because of business, something that forces us to stay here even though it's not something we both want to…" she stopped in mid-sentence.

I walked over to her and held her close, resting her head on my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her, and I put my lips next to her ear. "It's okay; life gets the best of us sometimes. We can't always do what we want, and can only play with the cards we're dealt. But it's how you handle yourself, and the twists and turns that life throws at you, is what defines you as an individual."

She nodded after a while and after she composed herself, she apologized for her lack of professionalism. I finally understood why I felt such a strong affiliation towards her; it was because we're both creatures who dawn masks, hiding behind fake personas and identities in order to survive. I reassured her with a smile and she returned it.

"I just knew you were different. You have a way about you, an aura if you will. It's extremely subtle, but there's something about you that screams in contrast to what everything else says about you. It's a very difficult thing to explain."

"I know," I smiled again. "It takes one to know one, I suppose." We left it at that, and walked back towards the hotel.

"Again, I'm sorry for tonight. I don't know what's gotten into me." Juliette said.

"It's no problem. It must take a lot to keep up a façade with an outlier such as myself."

"An outlier?"

"You know a figure that is completely detached from the main body or system. The odd ball of the group."

She was wide eyed. She opened her mouth to correct my assessment of her view of me, but she quickly saw my playful smirk and knew she was being teased yet again.

"Well at least, you're not like my previous clients, most if not all of them, were affair having sex deviants. To which I have to remind them, time and time again that our company doesn't provide that 'service,' and only provide a platonic companion to accompany them during their time here in Macau. _Them_, I can handle, but you _Monsieur _Benneteau..." I mentally cringed when she called me by my alias. "Are indeed, in a way. An outlier."

"Who's to say that I'm not an affair having sex deviant?" I winked at her.

"As I've said before, we're a lot alike. There's that aura about you. I doubt you're married, or even seeing anyone at this very moment. You live in your own world, not of this one." She stated matter-of-factly.

"But..." her voice became stern. " Just in case, I'll have to remind you that our company doesn't provide that 'service.'"

I chuckled, but stopped when she followed that up with: "But I can make an exception."

I cleared my throat, and adjusted my collar. "That is a very tempting offer. Trust me on that." I looked her up and down. "But I'm afraid I can't accept it." I said.

She opened her mouth to inquire, and I sealed it with a kiss on her cheek. "You're only being this forward with me, because you felt a connection. I'd be lying if I said I didn't also notice it. But you're vulnerable now, and that's the only reason why you're saying all of this. Go home, sleep off the euphoria, and you'll be back to normal soon enough.

She reluctantly nodded, and with flushed cheeks allowed me to put her in a taxi. We both waved goodbye and wished one another good night. I watched as the taxi's taillights round the corner, before I made my way back upstairs to my room.

I took a shower to wash away the day, and couldn't help get the feeling I was forgetting something.

_Oh crap._ I quickly dressed and reassembled the phone that was given to me by Bentley. I powered it on, and checked my messages. There were twelve of them, all of it read in some form or fashion: "Call me." and by the looks of it, every subsequent message seemed to get angrier.

I punched in the number I had memorized, and promptly on the first ring a voice could be heard.

"Where the hell have you been? I've been trying to reach you all day."

"You know what they say about 'having fun.'"

There was a seething grumbling noise on the other end.

"I've been trying to reach you all day," he repeated.

"Unless I'm talking on it," I said, "I leave this thing turned off."

"Saving the battery?"

"Guarding my privacy."

"You're the poster boy for paranoia," he said, and I could see him shaking his head on the other end. I smiled again. In some ways I liked Bentley in spite of his choice of employer, I'd been impressed by the countermeasures he'd taken in his method of contacting me, and for us to keep tabs with one another. He even went out of his way of getting me this encrypted phone.

"Our friend just got in," he said.

"I know. I saw him last night."

There was a pause.

"You seem to know this, without me informing you. Meaning this was a vital piece of information that you neglected to tell me in our last phone call?"

"Are we seriously going to start this again?"

"You know, the agency is tracking him, if you'd leave the cell phone on, I might be able to contact you with some timely information."

Although I didn't know for sure, I suspected the CIA had been keeping tabs on Scar through a compromised cell or satellite phone. I wasn't going to make the same mistake.

"Sure," I said, my tone neutral to the point of sarcasm.

There was a pause. "You're not going to leave it on," he said, his tone half-resigned, half-bemused.

I laughed.

"Alright, fine. Do it your way."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah. It would be really nice if you could account for me for some of those disbursements. It wasn't exactly easy to wire that amount of cash into an unknown account without the agency finding out about it."

"We've been over this. I need the cash to get into the right rollers' rooms. I saw someone from China drop a million U.S at one of the baccarat tables the other night. That's where our friend plays. I need to get near him, and they don't allow spectators. Or low rollers."

"And will I be getting the cash back?"

"Maybe. Depends on how well I do at the tables."

"What if you actually win something?" he said.

"I'll be sure to report it as taxable income."

He laughed at that, and I said, "We're done?"

"Sure. Oh, just one other thing. A little something that I'm sure you'll want to hear about."

With raised eyebrow, I said "okay, shoot."

"Last night, someone got killed in your neighborhood."

"Really?" my voice not betraying me.

"Yeah. Broken neck."

"Ouch."

"You would know."

"Actually I wouldn't know," I said. "But I can imagine."

I heard a snort. "Just remember," he said, "even if I'm not there in the room watching you, I'm still watching."

"Didn't know you had a thing for voyeurism."

"Very funny."

"Who's being funny?"

There was yet another pause; I said "There's something I need you to do for me."

"Okay…" he responded uncertain. "What is it?"

"I need you to look someone up for me. A 'Juliette' from 'Macau's exotics', it's an escort service."

"I… what does this have to do with your mission?"

"It just does." I snapped at him.

This time there was a prolonged pause. Before he finally said, "Okay, I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks." I responded.

"You know, you're going to owe me for this one right?"

"Gee, because it's a good idea for you to keep tabs of favors from a guy who you personally sought out to help you with a little problem you were having that involves an international terrorist arms dealer?"

There was a befuddled onomatopoeic sound. "Um, call it even?"

I laughed, and said "I'll call you again tomorrow, send whatever you find out to the electronics message board I told you about."

"You got it," he said. "Good luck."

I pressed the "end" key, purged the call log history, and turned the unit off.

I noted that he wasn't exactly perturbed in any way about the late Super spy. Possibly indicating that he wasn't in fact, an undercover agent of the CIA. Or maybe there was an affiliation, and Bentley was simply out of the loop. Either way I had to wait twenty four hours before the money that Bentley wired to an account I had access to go through. So I decided to call it a night and scout out the Lisboa Casino tomorrow in hope of finding Scar.

Scar, though, is tough because of security-conscious tend to eschew patterns In favor of randomness. Meaning random times; random routes; when possible random destinations. They deliberately avoid getting hood on anything that the opposition can dial into.

But Scar's security wasn't perfect. His behavior suffered from what software types like Bentley would call a "security flaw", in this case, his compulsion to gamble. That compulsion was most likely the reason for how Bentley, and even Super spy, were to track him to Macau, the gambling central of Asia. Scar could have easily gone to a smaller locale to do his gambling, but one must get inside a target's head. A creature like Scar would never play anywhere except the best and grandiose, "to hell with security", he was a tiger of power and confidence, he will only play at the biggest and best tables in all of Macau.

All there was to do now was to rest up for tomorrow.


	5. Chapter 5: Luck be a Lady

**A/N & Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights to any of the characters that are affiliated with _Sucker Punch Productions (2002-05)_, _Nihilistic Software (2011)_, and/or _Sanzaru Games (2012-Present)_. I do however, own their products and highly recommend to those who don't, to please support the creators of the franchise. The portrayal of their characters in this fan fiction is just that, of fiction; they do not in any way reflect the "actual-true fictional storyline" created by the *stated above* developers of the Sly Cooper franchise.

To **NinjaxSketcheartx – **To be perfectly honest, I had intended Juliette to be nothing more than a minor character to be used as a tool for Sly's cover, and to be used as intended for diverting attention. But I decided against it when I noticed that you were quite keen on having her be "more", so, yeah… "Tadah!" now she is. Of course, because of her sudden promotion from "minor" to "side character" so abruptly, her character won't be as rounded as I would prefer, but that's the pros and cons of not planning out a complete story beforehand.

I don't mind all too much that I don't get reviews, I understand that more than the majority of the people who read or write stories on this site are, stereotypically: 16 years of age, female, and particularly sift through the stories, and settle upon their favorite "OTP" of character A x character B, so writers who serve to indulge that need of excess "fluff" will have the highest of review counts. But every writer will need _constructive_ reviews, from an array of adept and inept writers to understand one's own successful writing style. The usual "I love it!" or "MORE!111~~~" that you see here, are the least helpful. As it doesn't do anything but pander to the continuation of subpar writing.

I've taken a liking to the "respond to my reviewers" segment, which I've borrowed from TxG23 as the reviewers have taken time to write out a thoughtful and provoking response to the chapter, and I feel that it's a writer's duty to respond in kind. I'll still look forward to your reviews and suggestions. You're the reason to why Juliette isn't in the background.

To **BananaB0mb – **Speculations are always welcome. It drives me to create more twists and turns, and also provide the audience a satisfying "I KNEW IT!" sensation when whatever they perceive will happen, _does_ happen.

The reason why it's not getting the attention is because I am not writing what the readers want, simple as that. It could be a negative thing as an author to not being able to do so, but because it's a fan fiction and not something I am publishing, I tend to write towards the way I would prefer, rather than change and modify my mannerisms to adapt to the public.

I'm glad that you enjoyed their little banter, as they are not within physical proximity to one another; I had to somehow capture their personalities in a whole different manner. I hope you will keep up with this story, and I look forward to your next review.

To **Case Mckinley – **I'm glad that you didn't stop reading after you found out that Sly is indeed solo. Along with your positive review and take on the character interactions and dialogue, it pleases me to know that I'm doing something right. And about how Super spy and Juliette will play a role in the story, you're just going to have to wait to find out. Thank you again for your reviews.

To **cheesebread222 – **Less than a glaring thing like an "error" it was more to a typo. Somehow I managed to hit the number 1 key, when I was typing. Odd how word didn't pick that up… I'll be sure to go through my chapters again and see if I can't correct the mistakes. Thanks for giving this story a chance, as I know it's not your "cup of tea", but as always I look forward to your review.

**Chapter Five:** _Luck be a Lady._

The following evening, Juliette and I decided to enjoy a little gambling. We were able to get through the brief but awkward moment of her face flushing at the mere sight of me. I broke the ice by inquiring if she was feeling any better, and provided her a way out of the situation. I told her that if she was still "intoxicated" from the night before, she was free to return to her hotel. But she declined, and asserted that she was indeed "just fine".

We went in through a set of glass doors and rode a short escalator up to the main gaming hall. There it was, triple-distilled, a circular room of perhaps a thousand square meters, jammed tight with thick crowds shifting and sliding like platelets in a congealing bloodstream; high ceilings almost hidden above clouds of spot-lit, exhaled tobacco smoke; a cacophony of intermingled shouts of delight and cries of despair.

Juliette wanted to play the slot machines, which was fine, freeing me as it did to roam the baccarat rooms in search of Scar. I gave her a roll of Hong Kong dollars, and told her I'd be back in a few hours. More likely, if things went according to plan, I would go straight to the hotel. In which case, when we hooked up again, I'd tell her that I'd looked for her but couldn't find her, and had assumed that she'd gone back without me.

I headed for the stairs that would take me from the affectionately named "low-stakes pit" and up to the high rollers' room above. I passed rows of pensioners, all of which were seated in backless stools, sitting erect, with their electronic gambling cards that held all of their money, inserted into the machine; each mechanically communing with a slot machine, and I thought of pigeons taught to peck a lever in exchange for a random reward. Next to them were the many interchangeable gambling tables: roulette, blackjack, boule, Sic bo, Fan Tan, and Keno. The troupe hovering around them younger than the slot players they would eventually become, their jaws set, eyes shining in cheap ecstasy, lips moving in silent entreaty to the selfsame gods that even at the utterance of these foolish prayers continued to torment their worshipers with Olympian caprice.

On the highest pedestrian echelon, I headed for the currency exchange, where I bought chips with four hundred thousand Hong Kong dollars, roughly fifty thousand U.S. I'd already squeezed Bentley for that much and more in "expenses", the disbursements of which he had complained earlier. On this level, the games jump from a measly one thousand to a jaw dropping ten thousand for opening bets. One can literally amass a small fortune if they were to be lucky enough to spend a glorious night with lady luck, or they can lose it all only to be seen in one of Macau's many pawn shops later that evening, only to come back for more. I wandered from room to room, never actually going inside, until I found what I was looking for.

One floor above, outside the Lisboa's most exclusive VIP room, on the fifth floor, the highest in the casino, were the two bodyguards, Tweedle Dee on the left, and Tweedle Dum on the right, flanking the entrance. Scar must have felt sufficiently safe inside not to bother himself arguing about the "no spectators" rule. And sure, his guards could effectively guard the entrance, hell they were big enough to cover the doors by their sheer bulk alone. They could deal with anyone they deemed suspicious.

Unfortunately for them, I'm not a suspicious-looking Raccoon. And their presence told me exactly where to go, without needlessly making it look like I'm looking for someone by my earlier wandering.

I walked right past them and into the room. Only one of the three baccarat tables was in play. The rest were empty, save for their dealers, of course, who stood with postures as crisp as the starched collars of their white shirts, ready for players who would surely drift in as the evening deepened into the night; and for a few attractive Asians whom I made as shills, there to attract passing high rollers with their bright smiles and plunging necklines.

An attractive hostess walked up to me and asked if I would rather be seated at the active table, or would prefer to be seated at one of the two unoccupied ones, for as the rules dictate: there are no spectators allowed. I informed her I was merely amazed at the grandiose detailed work that went into this room, and that I would prefer to be seated at the active table, for I couldn't bear to wait for another patron before I could scratch my gambling itch.

As I was being escorted, I glanced over at the active table. There they were, Scar and the striking female he brought along with him, both dressed tastefully and a bit more stylishly than the other players: Scar in a white shirt, open at the neck, and navy blazer; the female was in a silk blouse and black bolero. Most of the fourteen player slots were taken, but Scar and his girlfriend had empty seats to either side of them. They were the only foreigners in the room, and had probably taken the isolated seats so as not to offend anyone who might consider a foreigner's presence unlucky. _The Asians were always superstitious when it came to matters dealing with luck._ I didn't have such qualms. Quite the contrary tonight, in fact.

The hostess stopped suddenly when we were only a few paces away. She turned to apologize, and explained in a low whisper that I had to wait until the current hand was completed before I could be seated. I gave a casual glance at the players that were already seated, who in turn did the same, some with scowls on their faces. It was a form of acknowledgement that there was now "new blood" at the table. But it also meant that there was a new element being introduced, meaning it threw off whatever metaphysical grasp they had on the game, and to those who have been winning all night, I was an unwelcomed guest; whereas for those who have been less prosperous, pray that my arrival will change their fortunes. I've been in this room before, and had seen bets of as high as one hundred thousand U.S. for a single hand. I knew, that some patrons would gamble all night, and on into the next night. A few of Scar's cohorts, their eyes glassy, their complexions pasty beneath the chandelier lighting, looked as though they might have just done that.

The hostess gestured that I choose an empty seat, I thanked her and I chose to take the seat to Scar's right, so that he would naturally look away from me to talk to his companion or to follow the action of the player n seat 1, who was designated to act as the bank. I noticed a computer briefcase, nestled against his leg where he would feel it if it were somehow to move.

He turned to me. "I've seen you, haven't I," he said in French-accented English, his dark eyes narrowing a fraction. The effect was half attempt at recollection, half accusation. His girlfriend glanced over and then away, to place a bet.

This was a breach a breach of high roller etiquette, which is generally predicated on respect for the other players' anonymity. "Maybe at the tables downstairs," I answered, concealing my surprise. "I have to build up the bankroll a bit before I'm allowed to take a trip to the VIP rooms"

He shook his head twice, slowly, and smiled, still looking into my eyes. "Not downstairs. At the Oriental. With a pretty vixen," he looked to the seat next to me. "She's not with you tonight?"

"You're staying at the Oriental?" I asked, sidestepping his question, as any self-respecting philanderer who'd just been questioned about his mistress by a stranger.

"It's a good hotel," he replied, doing a little sidestepping of his own.

I was impressed. I had been taking care not to stand out or to otherwise become memorable, and he had spotted me anyway. He was well-attuned to his environment, to the patterns that might at some point make the difference between winning and losing. Or living and dying.

The dealer advised us that it was time to place our bets. "Yes," I said, putting down the minimum bet of about ten thousand U.S on the bank, "but this is the place for baccarat." Scar nodded and put down fifty thousand on player, then turned to the banker to watch the hand get dealt. I saw from this movement that he wasn't truly concerned about me. If he had been, he wouldn't have turned his back. No, he had only been reflexively probing, firing metaphorically into the tree line, checking to see whether he'd hit anything and whether anyone fired back.

As the bets were being tallied, I held my hands together and adjusted the ring on my left ring finger from underneath with my right thumb. The dealer started to flip over the cards.

I won the first round. So far so good; I didn't know how long this would take, and even with baccarat's favorable odds and leisurely pace of play, Bentley's money wouldn't hold out forever. I placed another minimal bet, again on bank. Scar; place another stack of chips, what I estimate was another fifty grand on player. I couldn't help but smile a little when in my peripheral vision, Scar's face twisted in anguish when the cards were flipped. "Bank wins!" the dealer shouted.

After three more hands, I won four of the five hands of the night. Scar on the other hand, wasn't doing nearly as well. I placed another minimal bet on player, to which Scar growled.

He glanced over to me, "_Un autre pari minimum_?" – Another minimum bet?

My heart rate spiked. Another probe, "I'm sorry?"

He laughed at this. "Do not think you can fool me, I've heard you speak French when you were with your companion."

I gave him a curious look.

He brought up his hands, to show he didn't mean it as a threat, only an observation. "I didn't mean anything by it, I assure you." His voice told me he was telling the truth. "Just when you're a foreigner in a sea of yellow," he gestured to our Asian counterparts. "You tend to notice others like yourself, _foreigners_," he stressed the word, probably from recalling a previous encounter with a foreigner, or the more likely, _being_ the foreigner, "the unwanted outsider". "Especially when you're such a beautiful couple."

I played with my ring again, a sign of a guilty conscious. "_J'aime jouer en toute sécurité"_ – I like to play safe.

"Ah, from your accent, you're a Parisian. I knew you would be."

"And you?"

He shook his head, "No. I come from the Middle East, I was taught at a very young age the French language, along with my native language."

I nodded, faking interest. I already knew of his personal background, so everything he was telling me was just a small refresher.

A pretty attendant came by. Scar ordered a tonic water. At fifty thousand a hand, I supposed he wanted to exercise a little alcohol discipline. I followed suit.

His lady friend leaned toward him and said, "_Je vais essayer__les tables__de dés.__Je__ serai de retour__ bientôt_" – I'm going to try the craps tables. I'll be back in a little while. – _Christ, did everyone come here together off of Air France?_ She got up and left.

_Perfect._ I stole a glance, just a quick one, the kind Scar would find neither surprising nor disrespectful. She was wearing a black skirt to match the bolero. Her legs were stunning, and she walked with the unpretentious confidence of someone who long ago came to understand that she is beautiful and today finds the fact neither remarkable nor worthy of flaunting.

Scar doubled his bet on the next round. I stayed with the minimum. This time we both won.

The attendant came by with the drinks, carrying them perched on a silver tray. She placed Scar's on the table next to him, then leaned forward and moved to the same with mine. He was watching the banker, who was getting ready to deal. _Now._

I half rose from my seat, reaching for my drink with both hands as though concerned that I not spill it during the transfer. As my right hand passed over Scar's glass, I paused for an instant and squeezed, and the seal at the squib's bottom, thinner than the surrounding plastic, parted silently and released the contents within. I used my torso to obscure the move from above, where the overhead cameras might otherwise have recorded it. _Done._ I eased back into my seat, tonic water in hand.

The ring I was wearing was a faux ring. The ring contained a little cocktail, one unlikely to be served by the casino's bar girls. The concoction primarily consisted of staphylococcus aureus – a rapid-onset food poisoning pathogen – and chloral hydrate, a compound that causes nausea, disorientation, and unconsciousness within a few hours of consumption. The first of the two would cause Scar to head back to the hotel immediately, and the second would ensure that he slept soundly for me to do my job.

Scar ignored his drink during the next round, and during the one after. I started to become worried, as I could see the condensation collecting on the outer layer of his glass, "ten thousand on bank." I placed a bet, keeping my eyes on the game, not wanting to in some form; alert him that there might be foul play of any sort.

Upon approaching the fourth round, I was practically trying to _will_ him, as if I had suddenly developed psychic abilities and wanted to test them out by making him drink. But instead, as if fate was playing a cruel prank on me, instead of reaching for his glass he reached into his pocket and took out a cigarette. The ice in his glass was melting, and I began to grow concerned that one of the attendants would come and replace it. I had another faux ring which I could casually replace with the one currently on my finger, but didn't want to have to repeat the risky maneuver of getting it into his glass. I couldn't very well force the drink down his throat; I had to come up with a more subtle approach.

On the following hand, I place down a thirty thousand dollar bet on bank. Scar's body language told me all I needed to know.

"No longer playing it safe?" he chuckled.

"I've played safe enough for tonight; it's time to live a little." I took a sip of my tonic water.

The dealer flipped over the cards, "Bank wins!" a chorus of cheers and jeers resonated within the room. I exhaled, and gathered my winnings.

"You're a lucky raccoon. You've been winning a lot tonight."

"I might as well make the most of it; never know when the streak will end."

The following hand I doubled my last bet, and took another sip of tonic water. The dealer once again, repeats the process, he flips the cards, calls out the winner, a roar of the crowd. I had won again. I looked over to Scar, as a gesture of: _what do you know? I won again._ But noticed he had yet to take even a sip from his glass.

"Place your bets!" the dealer yelled over the crowd. _Alright, all or nothing._

I picked up a number of chips, Scar happened to glance over and his eyes went wide.

"Two hundred on player," I said while I handed over chips that had the number "10,000" engraved in gold numbers on them to the dealer. The other gamblers watched in silence as the dealer counted the number of chips being handed to him. Scar laughed a boisterous laugh, and placed a massive paw on my shoulder.

"You are an interesting one, my friend!" and followed suit, placing a two hundred thousand dollar bet, handing over twenty chips to the dealer to be placed on player. _Gotcha._

I raised an eyebrow at him, "Are you sure? You haven't exactly been winning."

"That's why I betting on _you_, not the player. Think of it as an investment."

I picked up my glass, "Cheers, on a sound investment."

He smiled a wide, teeth full smile; I likened him to the Cheshire cat. He picked up his glass, we knocked them together, and both took a swig.

Suddenly, the rest of the room came to life, of the eleven others that were seated with us at the table; six chose to bet on player, all of which clearly doubled their last wager.

The dealer turned over the bank's hand and cried out, "Natural eight!" An excited murmur picked up around the table: eight was a "natural," and could be beaten only by a nine. The round would be decided based on the cards already on the table – nothing new could be dealt. With almost seeming deliberation, the dealer next turned over the player's cards, calling out, "Natural nine!" as he did so. There was an outburst of cheers and curses, the former by those who had bet on the player's hand that round, the latter by those who had bet on the bank's. As the dealer passed the cards across the table to the other two dealers, who began paying off the winning bets, many of the players dipped their heads and began marking up the pads the casino had provided, attempting to discern some pattern in the randomness, a lucky streak they might lunge at and manage to grab.

Scar and I roared with delight standing up from our seats. He turned to me and extended an outstretched open hand. I took it and shook it.

"Bon, très bon!" – Good, very good!

Before I could get in a word edgewise, I was surrounded by the other gamblers, all patting my back and cheering.

Although I hated to admit it I was having fun, winning nearly half a million dollars U.S. in one night does that to a person. However, that was enough. It was time for me to go. I played one more hand, and then collected my winnings. "Good luck," I said to him, moving to stand.

"So soon?" he asked.

"Along with playing it safe, I've learned to quit while I'm ahead," I told him, holding up my chips.

He smiled, his gaze cool as always. "Yes, that's usually wise," he said.

On my way out of the casino I stopped to use on of the restrooms. A full bladder would be a nuisance later this evening, and I also wanted to thoroughly wash my hands. Staph is nasty stuff, and I had no wish to consume some of it accidentally.

I took a cab back to the hotel, and went straight for my room. Juliette was out, presumably still gambling with the money I'd given her. I grabbed what I needed from the room's safe, placed it in the utility pouch to which I now strapped to my leg. It's time for me to finish this.

**A/N: **Well there you have it, chapter 5. I was actually planning on doing another double release, but I was so caught up with the festivities of it being my golden birthday, and exams this week, that I didn't have the time to sit down and type out a few pages to progress the stories along. I'll try and get a Sly as a Fox, release soon. Hopefully this will satisfy your needs of reading my works. See you all in the next chapter. – J.L


	6. Chapter 6: The enemy of my enemy

**A/N & Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights to any of the characters that are affiliated with _Sucker Punch Productions (2002-05)_, _Nihilistic Software (2011)_, and/or _Sanzaru Games (2012-Present)_. I do however, own their products and highly recommend to those who don't, to please support the creators of the franchise. The portrayal of their characters in this fan fiction is just that, of fiction; they do not in any way reflect the "actual-true fictional storyline" created by the *stated above* developers of the Sly Cooper franchise.

***Important Notice* - **I've decided to change a few things in my first chapter of the story, for example: I had originally intended that Sly would meet with new, original characters that he would be forced to work with, however I have decided against it, as I'm sure readers of a Sly Cooper fan fiction would prefer the cast to be consisting of familiar faces. As you may know, there is a character in the first chapter known as "Naomi" who is a hired gun. However I have decided to remove that character, and instead have her replaced with our lovable Murray the Hippo. This however will not affect the story in the long run, but will in fact allow me to streamline the story to be more homogenous with the original cast and crew created by Sucker Punch Productions.

I decided now was the perfect time to do the edits, for the character that would have been Naomi (now Murray) has yet to be revealed, so it'll be a seamless once the character is introduced. This happens quite a lot when an author has many ideas that later don't pan out too well. Similarly to how Juliette plays a greater role to the story, I assure you that the changes are for the best.

To **NinjaxSketcheartx – **Well the good thing is: you don't have to understand poker, it's Baccarat! I'll continue to work with the "minor characters" if I can somehow encompass them into the story itself, but I've already got an idea of how the story will play out and end, now all that is left is to simply type it out. Stick around and maybe if I have the talent or skill for it, I'll be able to incorporate your favorite character (although kind of saddens me it's not one of the main characters…) Juliette into a bigger plot structure.

To **BananaB0mb – **Once again I'm glad that I've impressed you, although I'm sure you say that to all the nerdy guys who write Sly Cooper fan fictions. But I digress; probably the reason why you enjoyed the gambling scene is because it was a dramatized sequence of ordinary events. The exaggeration of the ordinary can pique the interest of anyone listening, or in this case, reading the story. Although I'm not a big gambler myself, I have been to Macau and to the Lisboa itself. I must say, I don't even think I was able to capture the location's grandiose environment and atmosphere, it was loud, vibrant, and literally a world of its own. I can safely say I wished I had acted as suave as how I depicted Sly, I was too busy acting like a tourist gawking at the posh marble interior, and too low class to play at their one thousand U.S tables (the slot machines were good enough for me, thank you very much).

Similar to the Saturday morning cartoons of old (my childhood) you'll just have to "stay tuned" to see if Juliette will become an intricate cog of the mechanism that is my story. Though, I have to admit, it's surprising that she's getting such a huge fan base, and now I'm caught in the middle of having her stay a minor character or pleasing the fan base. This chapter will answer most of your questions, and if not, soon will in the upcoming chapters. As always, if you have any questions or things that you'd like to run by me, author to author, I'd be more than happy to assist in anyway. And as always, I thank you for your constant reviews.

To **cheesebread222 – **I have no idea why my Microsoft word isn't picking up the doubling of phrases or the standard typos. Whenever I write a story or a long piece, I tend to read it over and edit it by taking out complete paragraphs, or rewriting the entire page. Meaning that remnants of the previous sentence, paragraphs, headings, what have you, could still be there, and the human brain sees it, and subconsciously fills in the blanks or skips over them. Thanks for pointing them out, and I hope you continue to do so, as I admit and stated, I've been too reliant on word's "f7" spell checker.

Any who, with all of that said and done, I'd like to present to you chapter six of: _Sly Cooper: The Heart of Darkness._

**Chapter Six:** _The enemy of my enemy is still my enemy_

I headed to Scar's suite, he would start feeling sick shortly, and could be expected to return soon after that. It was important that I let myself in ahead of him. If he got in first, he might engage the dead bolt, low tech in this day and age, but inaccessible from the outside, and I would lose this rare opportunity.

I did my usual security detection, and got off two floors below the suite, and used the stairs to climb up the rest of the way. I carefully opened the stairway door and gently closed it behind me, but just as I was about to round the corner, I heard the distinctive chime coming from the opposite end of the corridor, indicating that the elevator was stopping on this floor, and the doors were about to open. I tensed and planted my back up against the wall. I crouched down low and took out a small dental mirror, the ones a dentist's office would have, and used it to look around the corner. I knew it was too soon for Scar to come back, it would take about a half an hour for the symptoms to start; another fifteen minutes to catch a cab, and ride back to the hotel. What reflected off the mirror confirmed my theory.

A couple stepped out of the elevator. The male had his arm draped around his companion's shoulders, barely able to stand on his own two feet. The other strained to support his weight, placing her hand on the adjacent wall as ballast to keep them both upright and moving forward. It was an odd couple, the male was a malamute dog and the female was a Persian cat, I couldn't help but remember that such interspecies relationships were frowned upon when I was growing up.

I took a look at my watch, and counted down the precious seconds in the timetable I've created to ensure that I would be able to set up my rig properly in Scar's room. I took another glance down the hall with the mirror, and sure enough, the dog's drunken stupor had prevented them from moving more than a couple feet. _Damn it._

I unstrapped my bag and placed it on the floor; I stood up, opened the door to the stairs, and let its own weight and momentum close behind me. I walked around the corner with my hands in my pockets, rummaging through them as if I was looking for my keycard.

A voice called out from the end of the hall, "Excuse me! Can you help me?"

I looked up, and gave an expression as if I had just realized they were there. Both of them had lost their fight with gravity, and were kneeling on the floor. I then rushed over to them, and asked what the matter was.

"My boyfriend, he's been drinking a lot tonight… losing a small fortune does that to someone, can you help me? Our room is just over there, door eleven."

I nodded, and helped lift up the drunken canine, praying he wouldn't throw up on me, and walked him over to their door. I leaned him onto me so that his companion could open the door. After I helped place him on the bed and received a word of thanks, I politely excused myself, and wished them the best of luck in their next gambling endeavor.

I closed their door behind me, and rushed back down the hall to grab my equipment. I used the _Cooper Vision_, before going in. Scar's companion had said she was going to play craps, but people change their minds. The room was empty. I let myself in with my homemade master key. It would have been nice if I could have just stood in the closet or lain down under the bed, but those would be among the first places bodyguards would inspect if they performed even a cursory sweep. Instead, I moved quickly to the larger of the suite's two bathrooms. I saw two sets of toiletries arranged across the expansive marble countertop around the sink, Scar's, presumably, and his lady friend.

There was a vertical slab of marble joined to the front edge of the countertop, extending about a quarter of the distance to the floor. I took a SureFire E1e mini-light from my bag – three inches, two ounces, fifteen bright white lumens – squatted down, and looked underneath the slab. I traced the hot and cold water pipes that ran down from the sink handles from above, and saw that it disappeared into the wall behind it. I saw the curvature bottom of the ceramic sink, and an attached drainage pipe that snaked down, then back up, and with the other pipes into the wall behind.

I smiled. If Scar had taken a more modest room, _which of course I knew he wouldn't_, I wouldn't have been able to get away with this, and would have had to come up with something less optimal. As it was, the countertop was sufficiently grand to leave a sizable gap between the back of the vertical marble façade and the underside of the sink basin behind it. It would be a bit of a squeeze, but there was just enough room in there for a raccoon of my size.

From my bag I took out a specifically designed nylon sling, which, unfurled, looked something like an uncomfortably thin black hammock with four cams on its ends. In my squatted position, I put the SureFire into my mouth and looked for places to secure the cams. From the looks of it, the countertop must have weighed at least a couple hundred pounds, and it was buttressed by a series of wooden supports, each of which provided a convenient gap for a cam. I managed to secure the would-be hammock, and replaced my mini-light back into my bag and secured it back in its original place, attached to my leg. I squeezed and eased myself into it and remained perfectly still. Nothing seemed to be coming loose, and I was held perfectly in place. Needless to say, it was uncomfortable as hell, but not intolerable. I've certainly been in worse situations.

It was only a matter of time before Scar returned, and I was glad that little detour before with the couple hadn't blown my chances to get into position. In fact, if I had waited for them to return to their room on their own, this whole scenario might have been inaccessible, it was a risk of course letting them see my face, but I'll bet that with the whole situation happening, they wouldn't be able to pick me out of the other guests at the hotel.

I knew that the bodyguards, if they were any good, were likely to inspect the suite before Scar entered. But I also knew that, in his current condition, Scar would want to be alone and would therefore probably order them out, if he allowed them in at all that is. But as a last resort, I was equipped with a CIA-designed, .22-caliber single shot pistol, artfully concealed inside the body of an elegant Montblanc pen, which I now removed from my bag. If pressed, I would use the disposable pen to drop whoever was closest to me and, in the ensuing melee, improvise with whoever might be left. Of course, if it came to this, I wouldn't be paid for "making it look natural" as per Bentley's order to ensure that he wouldn't get found out for this less than approved operation, so the pen-gun was only for emergencies.

I didn't have to wait long. Ten minutes after I had gotten into position, I heard tapping; the sound of someone failing to insert their keycard into the reader. My heart rate spiked, and I used controlled breathing to keep my adrenaline levels in check, I took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled while relaxing my muscles. I then heard the door to the suite open. A light came on in the outer room, and the sound of feet rapidly approaching. The door to the toilet stall slammed against the wall, followed immediately by the sounds of violent retching.

Another set of footsteps. A male voice: "_Monsieur Scar…" _

The bodyguard, I assumed. There was more retching, then Scar's voice, low and ragged: _"Yallah!"_I didn't know the word, but understood what he was saying. Get out. Now.

I heard the bodyguard's footsteps exit the bathroom, followed by the sound of the exterior door opening and closing. Scar continued to groan and retch, cursing in his native language, which I suspected to be Hebrew. In his haste he hadn't bothered to turn on the bathroom light, but there was some illuminating from the suite beyond and I could make out shadows under the sink where I was currently suspended.

I heard something jingle, then the sound of metal hitting the marble floor and wondered what had caused it. Then I realized: his belt buckle. Staph causes diarrhea, and he was struggling to keep up with the onset of symptoms. The sounds and smells that followed confirmed my diagnosis.

After about ten minutes I heard him stumble out of the room. The bedroom light went off. A safe assumption that he had collapsed into bed. I looked at my watch, carefully studied the low florescent glow of the numbers and hands. I would give him another half hour, long enough to ensure that the chloral hydrate had coursed through his system and therefore maximally difficulty to detect, but not so long that he might start to wake up from the effects. The staph obviously, would turn up in the pathologist's exam, but staph occurs naturally in food, so its presence in the postmortem examination would be blamed for the heart attack Scar was about to suffer.

I took a small syringe from my bag. The "heart attack" would be the result of an injection of potassium chloride; a painless way to go, recommended by suicidal cardiologists the world over. Potassium chloride depolarizes cell membranes throughout the heart, producing a complete cardiac arrest, resulting in immediate unconsciousness, and rapid death. During postmortem, other cells in the body naturally begin to break down, releasing potassium into the bloodstream, meaning it will not raise suspicion by either the attending physician or the coroner, who will carry out the autopsy. I would try for the axillary vein under the armpit or perhaps the ophthalmic vein in the eye, both hard to detect entry points.

I checked my watch again, twenty minutes had passed, with no sound other than Scar's occasional insensible groans. I rolled out of the harness and lowered myself silently to the floor. In a few more minutes, and I would begin preparing the injection. I had a small bother of chloroform with me that I would use in case he started to stir during the procedure.

I heard a card key sliding into the suite's door lock. I froze and listened.

A moment passed. I heard the door open. It clicked closed. The light went on in the bedroom.

I reach into the backpack and withdrew the Montblanc. I heard the sound of footsteps in the room. Scar, softly groaning. Then a female's voice: "_Solomon, tu vas bien?" _– Solomon, are you okay?" – To which Scar, clearly out of it, continued only to groan in reply.

_Shit, the female companion._ I thought. I slipped the pen into my left hand and used my right to ease out my dental mirror. I padded silently to the edge of the door and angled the mirror so that I could see the suite's bedroom.

It was her, as I had expected. She must have had her own key.

I grimaced at this aspect. Bad timing. Another ten, no, five minutes and this would have all been over.

I watched her shake Scar once, then harder. "Solomon?" she inquired again. This time there wasn't even a groan in response.

I saw her take a deep breath, hold it for a beat, then gradually pushed it out, her chin moving in, her shoulders dropping as she did so. _Controlled breathing? What the hell?_ She then strode quickly and quietly over to a wall switch, and turned off the lights. The room was now lit only by the ambient glow of buildings and streetlights without. I watched her glance at the room's gauze curtains, which were closed.

She moved to a desk across from the bed. I glanced over and saw the computer case that Scar was carrying the night he checked into the hotel, and the one next to his leg in the casino. Interesting.

She unzipped the case and took out a thin laptop, which she then opened. But instead of powering up the laptop, she walked over to the bed, gingerly taking one of the pillows from next to Scar's head, came back to the desk, and held the pillow over the laptop's keyboard. It took me a second to figure out what she was doing: muffling any chimes or other music heralding that the operating system was stirring to life. A nice move, I had to admit, which showed some forethought, a level of training, and practice. She wouldn't have known where Scar had left the volume of the machine when he had last used it; if it had been turned up, the computer's musical boot tones might have disturbed his slumber, although I knew for a fact it wouldn't have, but she didn't know what I knew.

I saw from the dental mirror the trademark Windows logo appearing on the screen, the accompanying notes barely audible under the pillow. She paused for a moment then removed the pillowed and returned it to its original place on the bed. I noted that she hadn't just haphazardly tossed it aside. She was trying to keep the room as she had found it, which is to say the way Scar had left it, down to the details. Another sign that she had good instincts, or that she was trained. Maybe both.

She returned to the laptop and I heard her click her tongue. She went to her purse to retrieve something and I caught a glance at the computer screen, it was asking for a password. She pulled a cell phone from her purse, spent a minute configuring it in some fashion, and then pointed it at the laptop. She started working the phone's keypad.

Several minutes went by. She would input some sequence, some key command on the phone's keypad, look at the laptop for a few seconds, and repeat. Occasionally she would glance at Scar. I could see the laptop screen while she was doing all of this and it hadn't changed. My best guess was that, the "cell phone" she was fiddling with in her hands was more than it seemed, and that she was using the device's infrared or Bluetooth to interrogate the laptop with generated passwords.

Five minutes went by, then another five. I started to get nervous as we were starting to reach the point of no return. Scar might have metabolized enough for the drug's effects to wear off and would soon regain consciousness. _Another five, ten minutes at most, and I would have to abort... but how? _Was the question.

I wasn't worried about getting out. Scar wouldn't be in any kind of condition to stop me, and I didn't expect that the female would pose a significant obstacle, but if Scar saw me, especially after making my acquaintance at the Lisboa earlier that evening, or if the woman reported that there had been an intruder, even with helping Scar win two-hundred thousand U.S wouldn't smooth that over. I'd have a hell of a time getting a second chance.

I heard Scar groan. The woman froze and glanced at him, but he stirred no further. Still, she must have decided it was best to not risk it, because a second later she dropped the device she was using back into her purse, set the purse on the floor, and logged off the laptop, using the pillow as she had before to mute the farewell melody. When the screen had gone dark, she closed the lid she pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the surfaces she had touched and replaced it back in its case, she returned the pillow to the bed, and began to undress.

_Shit._

The situation was deteriorating, I couldn't count on her to get to sleep quickly enough, or to stay asleep deeply enough, to allow me to slip out unnoticed. Hell, from what I've seen so far, she looked like she might sleep as lightly as I do. Also, from the care she had displayed so far, I'm almost certain she would have engaged the suite's deadbolt lock, and as part of a mental checklist, if she found it disengaged tomorrow in the morning, she would be more likely to conclude that someone had been in the room.

I weighed my options. Kill them both? Impossible to do "naturally," under the circumstances; Bentley had specified that payment was conditioned on no evidence of foul play, it also went against my personal dogma, what I do for a living, I don't do to woman or children. Besides, I couldn't help but like this woman. It wasn't just her looks. It was her moves, her self-possession, her air of command, and the instincts and brains I thought I had just silently witnessed.

There was one possibility. It was risky, but certainly no worse than the other alternatives that I had available in his meager range of options for a solution for this situation.

I waited until she was fully undressed when she would feel maximally helpless. She started moving towards the bed, she lifted the covers to get in, when I strode into the bedroom.

She startled when she saw me, but overall kept her composure. "What the hell are _you_ doing here?" she asked in a low voice; in some sort of foreign-accented English. She stressed the "you" in the question, and sounded more accusatory than afraid.

"You know me?" I whispered back, thinking, _what the hell?_

"From the casino. And I've seen you in the hotel. Now what are you doing here?"

_Christ, she was as observant as he was. _"Any luck with Solomon's computer?" I asked, trying to regain the initiative. My gaze was focused on her torso, the area I always watch, after confirming that the hands are empty, because aggressive movement tends to originate in the midsection. In this instance, however, the view was more than a little distracting. She looked even better naked than she had in the black couture I had seen her in earlier this evening.

She kept her cool. "I don't know what you're talking about."

I flashed her the modified SoliderVision, still secured onto my wrist, and bluffed. "Really? I've got it all right here on low light video."

She glanced at the device, then back to me. "On a SoldierVision? I didn't know they recorded video."

I mentally screamed in frustration. _Oh come on! I just can't catch a break tonight; she knew her hardware._ Whoever she was, she was good, and I needed to stop underestimating her. "This one does," I said, improvising, "So why don't we make a deal? I don't know who you're working for, and I don't care. As far as I'm concerned, this never happened. You didn't see me, and I didn't see you. How does that sound?"

She was silent for a long moment, seemingly oblivious to her nakedness. Then she asked, "Who are you with?"

I smiled, "Don't ask, don't tell."

She went silent again. My gaze dropped for a moment. Her body was beautiful: simultaneously muscular and curvaceous, like a figure skater's, or a trained super model.

I looked up again. She was watching my eyes. "You're probably bluffing about that video," she said, her voice even, "but I can't take the chance. I can't let you leave with it."

I was impressed by her ability to assess the situation in a composed manner. I tilted my head in Scar's direction. "He's going to come out of it any minute now. If he wakes up and I'm here, it'll be bad for the both of us."

She rolled her eyes as though exasperated. "Bad for you, you mean. When he wakes up, it's going to be your word against mine. And I promise you, he'll be inclined to believe me, not you."

I shrugged. "What if I told him to check the book log on his computer? I'm sure Solomon has it enabled. Or to take a good look at the 'cell phone' you have in your purse?"

Her eyes narrowed a fraction; she didn't have an answer for that one. _Good._

She sighed, tired of this idiotic tit for tat conversation and said, "I'm going to get dressed."

I almost believed her. It seemed natural enough, she was naked in front of a stranger, and she wanted to put clothes on. But her obliviousness to her nudity hadn't bothered her in the slightest a moment earlier.

"Don't," I said sharply. The pen was in my pocket now, and I wouldn't be able to deploy it in time. Even if I did, pointing a pen at someone doesn't result in the immediate response of, let's say, an actual gun would in a similar situation.

She ignored me. I saw that she was going for her purse, not her clothes. She must have had a weapon in there; I took two long strides and kicked the purse aside. I started to protest, but as I did so, she straightened and I saw her left elbow whipping around toward my right temple and blurring speeds. I didn't have time to bring up my hand to block, so I did the next best thing, I moved in closer to get inside the blow, her elbow missed the mark. But she instantly snapped her hips the other way and caught me with the other elbow, from the opposite side. _Boom_. I was seeing stars. I stumbled backwards, and in my barely visible peripheral vision I saw her midsection begin to contort, and knew that another combo was coming. I dropped down low and wrapped my arm around her closest ankle, and drove my shoulder into her shin. She went down hard on her back with an involuntary yelp.

I placed my hand on her thigh and shoved backwards, away from her. I stood up and took a step back, watching her carefully. I fought the instinct of putting my hand on my head, on the place where she had struck me.

"Are you insane?" I said my voice low. "What's he going to think if you wake him up?" Then in my eyes, the look of recognition. _That was the point, wasn't it?_ I thought to myself. If she'd wanted to, or been willing to wake him, she would have already done it. She didn't want him to know about me, maybe because of the "video," maybe for another reason. She took the calculated risk of trying to take me out, so that in end, there would only be one side of the story in the aftermath.

There was a dull throbbing in my head where she'd connected. I moved over to the purse and while keeping an eye on her, picked it up. I didn't know what was inside, but I wasn't going to let her get to it. Anyone, especially a female like her could weaponize any of the contents held within: lipstick, mace, edged credit cards, keys, maybe a modified concealed weapon like my Montblanc, I wouldn't put it past her.

Scar groaned again. I'd need at least a few minutes to prepare him for the injection, even assuming I could do it without interference from my new sparring partner, and it looked like I'd run out of time.

"It would have been nice if we could have met under different circumstances," I said, now allowing myself to rub my sore left temple, I took a step toward the door.

"How are you going to get past the bodyguard?" I heard her say.

That threw me off balance. I had naturally assumed that the bodyguard would depart after they had confirmed Scar was in his room. I made my way to the door and planted the Cooper Vision on the door and sure enough, there was a hulking image just on the other side of the door. _Of course…_

"Give me the video," she said from behind me, "and I'll send the guard away. You can go."

I shook my head slowly, trying to figure a way out of this situation and improvise a plan out of this.

Scar groaned yet again. She glanced at him, then immediately refocused her gaze on me. "Look," she whispered sharply, "I don't know who you are, but it's obvious that you're no friend of his. You've probably already figure out I'm not his friend, either. Maybe we can help each other."

"Maybe," was all I could say.

"But show me some good faith. Give me the video, and I'll get you out of here."

I smiled. "You know I can't. You wouldn't, in my place."

Her eyes narrowed a fraction, she wanted to argue but saw no point as she knew I was right. But quickly said, "I don't think there even _is_ a video."

"'Show me some good faith,'" I repeated her own words back at her, to which she snarled.

"But I agree that we can help each other," I said. "And here's how it'll happen. I'll go back into hiding, you get the bodyguard in here; tell him Solomon is gravely ill, he's been throwing up and is barely conscious, and you need to get him to the hospital. You and the bodyguard traipse him out of here, as soon as you're gone, I'll be gone too. You can have the video after that."

She fell silent for a long time. _Come on, this is the best offer you're going to get, and you know it. You have just as much to lose as I do, take the offer. If one thing goes the way I want it tonight, let it be this._

"How do I contact you?" I asked, closing the deal for her.

She pursed her lips, and then said, "You can look for me in the casino after eight tomorrow night."

"The Lisboa?"

"No, too far out of the way, he'll get suspicious if I go back there alone, here, at the Oriental."

"What do I call you?"

She looked at me, her eyes coolly angry. "Carmelita," she said.

Scar groaned again. I nodded once indicating that the plan was now in action, and move quickly into the bathroom. I hauled myself back into the sling underneath the sink.

A moment later, I heard the suite's door open, followed by a muffled conversation in French. Carmelita's voice and the bodyguard's. I heard footsteps enter into the main bedroom, where they started to wake Scar. I could pick out a few almost inaudible words: "sick," "hospital," "doctor."

Then Scar's voice, low and groggy, as if he had a mouth full of cotton: "_Non, non. Je vais bien." _– No, no. I'm fine. – Carmelita's voice, closer now, reprimanding him and urging him to see a doctor. There was a moment of silence, before rapid footsteps grew louder. He was now up and was coming my way. I willed myself to relax and breathed silently through my nose.

"_Je vais bien,_" I heard him say again from just outside the bathroom. I heard the door open and his feet heavily stomping the marble floor, a common sign of loss of balance due to dizziness caused by nausea. The sound of a faucet squeaking above me, the sound of water coursing through the pipes around me, I could feel the cold emanating from them. I turned my head and looked down. A pair of feet and lower legs stood before the sink. If I'd wanted to, I could have reached out and touched them. I noted two bare lines running the length of his shinbones, where the fur had worn away, along with a slight rippling effect in the surface of the bone itself, both signature deformations of Thai boxers and other practitioners of hardcore kicking arts. The bones become engorged in response to the trauma of repeated blows, eventually developing into nerveless and brutally hard striking surface. The file Bentley provided for me said something about him having studied Savate, French style of kickboxing, and would appear that the information had been correct.

I heard the splashing of water, then the rhythmic sounds of a scrubbing that was affiliated with toothbrush on teeth, an ordinary enough urge after vomiting. In his haste, Scar must have placed the toothbrush improperly on the sink's countertop, because in the next second something clattered to the floor, practically underneath me.

I turned my head and sure enough, his toothbrush was on the floor. My adrenaline levels spiked up and I fought the urge to act out, I instead pulled the cams tighter which pulled the mesh of the hammock up higher to conceal more of me. I saw the top of a close-cropped scalp; the bridge of a nose, bent from some long-ago break; his shoulders and back, thickly muscled, covered with dark orange fur.

All he had to do was simply look up, and he would have seen me. But he didn't. His digits closed around the toothbrush and he straightened. A moment later the water stopped running and he padded out of the bathroom. I heard a few more words being exchanged before the sound of a door being opened could be heard.

" _Ah, un instant s'il vous plaît. J'ai besoin de prendre mon sac à main. __Je vous retrouve en bas_." – Ah one moment please, I must grab my purse. I'll meet you downstairs. I heard Carmelita's footsteps. She entered the bathroom and immediately headed straight for the sink and squatted down so she could see me.

"How did you…?"

"There is a distinct smell of alcohol coming off of you, I didn't notice it at first due to the other odors being emitted, but after our little scuffle I involuntarily got a whiff of you."

I inhaled a breath and noticed an extremely faint smell of alcohol, and tried to remember when I would have made contact with it. Then it hit me, _the drunken malamute._

Before I had a chance to ask if she was part bloodhound, she added, "Besides where else would you have been. This was the most obvious spot if you knew where to and what to look for."

She must have given it some thought and realized that this would be the only decent place to hide. Again I was impressed.

"I've sent the guard to go on ahead of me," she whispered. "This will be your own chance, and I suggest you take it."

I motioned her to step back to supply me some room, and I wordlessly rolled out of the harness and dropped silently to the floor on one hand and the balls of my feet. I then turned and started to unfasten the equipment but she placed her hand on my shoulder.

"Leave the rig," she said. "There's no time. I'll take care of it later, and return it to you."

I nodded at Carmelita and headed for the exit. She followed me closely. I paused before the door and used the Cooper vision again to confirm that the coast was clear before leaving.

I moved into the empty corridor. She shut the door behind me without another word.

**A/N: **That was possibly the longest chapter I've written for any of my Sly Cooper fan fiction stories for this website. I hope it wasn't too much for one sitting, and I hope you enjoyed all of it, albeit being long. I plan on doing another flash back chapter, to introduce a familiar character into the fray, Murray the hippo. And as stated up top, he will be taking the place of Naomi, so don't be surprised when his occupation is similar to hers because in fact, she was supposed to be a character in this story instead of him. Anyway, hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. I'll catch you all next time – J.L


	7. Chapter 7: The Pink Menace

**A/N & Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights to any of the characters that are affiliated with _Sucker Punch Productions (2002-05)_, _Nihilistic Software (2011)_, and/or _Sanzaru Games (2012-Present)_. I do however, own their products and highly recommend to those who don't, to please support the creators of the franchise. The portrayal of their characters in this fan fiction is just that, of fiction; they do not in any way reflect the "actual-true fictional storyline" created by the *stated above* developers of the Sly Cooper franchise.

**To NinjaxSketcheartx – **First of all, I would like to apologize to you for my absence from the internet; the electrical wiring for my apartment apparently was damaged during Hurricane Sandy, resulting in a power surge from the sockets which ran a current up my wiring. My Hard drive, my power supply, and my motherboard were all fried, and I had to go through the entire process of ordering new parts, waiting for them to ship, and find a new case to house them in. So I wanted to say "sorry" to you, for not responding back immediately to your messages about reading and reviewing some of your work. I again, am sorry. *bows head in shame*

Secondly to respond to your review of my last chapter: It's fine, no matter what age you are, learning is learning. Although don't tell anyone that I encouraged you to read up on gambling, but it's what you need to do when you're using an idea or concept in your works. You can't just make up the rules for real and long established things, such as the game of baccarat (and no, it's not something to eat hah).

YES FINALLY! I'm glad that you're happy with the introduction of Carmelita, and it's a good thing you didn't see it coming or I'd be the one that's disappointed in myself for not being able to subtly hide my characters. I'm glad you enjoyed the fight scenes, I take pride in being able to write vivid and detailed scenes that allows my readers to see, well, something that you would watch in a Hollywood action movie. To be able to allow people to see the scene move while being in text form, is a major accomplishment, and I thank you for praising me on that aspect.

I'm honored to know that this was your favorite chapter of all my stories, and I'll try to write more chapters that will dethrone your previous favorites. Thanks again for your review, and again… I'm sorry for the delay x.x;;

**To BananaB0mb – **I'm glad that you enjoyed my chapter, but to say that I "impressed" you is a little much don't you think? Also, Sly will always be _Sly_, no matter what. He could charm the pants off anyone, _and he might do just that_.

Don't bother yourself with my chapter if you're lacking rest, it's not worth losing sleep over it (trust me I know it's not hah). But we shall one day perhaps band together and go raid the casinos with our inexperienced and lack of understanding for the rules for the game, gameplay, and we shall walk out of Atlantic City or Las Vegas as wealthy champions! Hoorah!

**To Cheesebread222 – **I'm glad that the length of my previous chapter wasn't too much for you, as it's important to know how much to give so that it doesn't become overwhelming. I'm glad you enjoyed how Carmelita was introduced, and am always glad to hear that you "didn't notice any errors this time around…" for the errors upon finding them, become glaring and shameful things in which I seek to hide away from the world.

No worries about the delay in which you respond to the time I post, everyone has their own time schedule in which they must follow.

I hope that I got to everyone and everything that was in the reviews, and I'm sorry if I missed something or someone. With that all said and done. Here is Chapter Seven.

**Chapter Seven:** _The Pink Menace. _

I'd been living in Paris for almost a year when they finally got to me. It had rained that day, the sky full of oppressive, low-lying clouds that clung to Paris' breathtaking sceneries like smoke from some faraway calamity.

I was living the life as Henri Dumas, after Alexandre Dumas, whom was the most widely read French author in history. I had created this alter ego as an escape hatch for the day my enemies might succeed in tracking me down, as indeed they had, forcing me to flee my at the time home in Japan.

Dumas found a suitable apartment in the heart of Paris. Just another Parisian moving back home to be with fellow Parisians, after being disappointed by the outside world, insulted that his previous country of residence couldn't compare to the echelon of culture that was Paris. He selected his specific neighborhood, because his living quarters were in proximity to a high quality, low-cost Brazilian judo establishment, which was found in an easily overlooked location in the back roads of the metropolis. Dumas had taken an interest in the physical aspects of martial arts from his previous stay in Japan, and became a member of their establishment. He would frequent there on an irregular basis due to his conflicting work schedule, and become a formidable opponent to veterans of the art, and even the instructors of the establishment.

It was a Friday, and training would be in shorts and t-shirts, without the heavy cotton _judogi_. I took the stairs to the third floor, kicked off my sandals, and stepped onto the mat. I felt that something was off, and sure enough, there was a commotion when I entered. In the middle of the dojo, a few of the regulars were huddled in a circle exchanging worried looks and hushed words. In the middle of that circle lying unconscious, was another frequent regular, a Russian that went by the name Sergei. I let out an impressed whistle, to be able to knock out Sergei surely was impressive, that guy was a bear. No, quite literally, Sergei was an _actual_ bear.

I scanned around the room unobtrusively not letting him know that I had logged him mentally, while I nonchalantly placed my changing bag on the floor, and started to do my stretches. On the far side of the room a heavily muscled magenta hippo was hanging from the rings used by gymnasts, his arms stretched out to the sides, his posture straight and proper. He was barefoot and bare-chested, wearing only a pair of navy colored shorts, and his torso gleamed under a coating of oily sweat. He saw me come in and dropped to the floor, the move smooth and silent despite his bulk.

I knew him as "The Murray", the nom de guerre in which he gave himself when we were younger. He originated from the south, and I still remember the annoying lectures I had with him, informing him that simply putting the word "the" in front of your real name doesn't make it a pseudonym in which you assumed to hide your true identity. But Murray will be Murray. He had a strong sense of justice and chivalry ever since we were small, although that never stopped him from committing mischievous deeds with me; nothing at the level of which I'm doing now, but it was comforting to know I had someone loyal watching my back. We grew up together in the same orphanage and became comrade in arms, until the day he was adopted over a decade ago, and I hadn't seen him, or missed him, since then.

He walked over, a grin spreading as he approached.

"Wanna roll around a little?" he asked in the hayseed twang I remembered.

I noted that he had no place to conceal a weapon or transmitter. I wondered whether the attire had been chosen deliberately, to somehow reassure me that this wasn't some obvious set up. Murray liked to play the hick, and a lot of people fell for the act, but I knew he could be subtle when he wanted to be.

This was obviously not a social call, but I wasn't concerned for my immediate safety. If Murray had any ill intent, the third floor of a dojo would be a poor place to carry it out. He was an obvious foreigner, would have checked in at the front desk, and would be dealing with dozens of witnesses.

"Let me warm up first," I said, without returning his grin.

"Shoot, man, I'm already warmed up. Pretty soon I'll be warming down! Been here almost an hour, waiting for someone new to train with." He jumped up and down a few times on his toes and flexed his considerable arms back and forth.

I looked around. Although morning classes at the dojo tend to be more sparsely attended than the evening equivalent, there were about twenty people practicing on the mat, some within earshot. I decided to hold off on the questions I wanted to put to him.

"Why don't you have a go with one of these guys?" I asked, motioning my head to some of the members who were training.

He shook his head. "I already went with a few of them." He smiled, and then added, "I think they stopped volunteering to be my sparring partners when big o' nasty over there was laid flat with a single punch." He looked over to where Sergei was.

"I'll let you know when I'm ready," I told him, rotating my head, loosening my neck.

He gave me the grin again. "I'll be right here," and walked back over to his original position near the rings.

His physical conditioning methods, I remembered, like he was, were also unconventional and _unique_. I remembered the time when I stumbled upon him in the aftermath of a conflict. It was a sight to behold, watching a small hippo lifting two of the other bigger kids, who were infamous for secretly bullying the other children at the orphanage, and using them as weights, all the while with them crying the entire time. He was scolded by the adults for bullying the other children, but the other orphans felt differently. They praised him for his heroic deeds and asked of him to be their protector and guardian, he naturally agreed. From then on, he focused more on isometric exercises, and would sometimes stand on his head, his hands laced behind his neck, for a half hour or more. A lot of people had underestimated him because of his unusual habits, his good ol' boy routine. I wasn't going to make that mistake.

I stretched and worked through a series of Hindu squats, neck bridges, and other calisthenics until I felt sufficiently limbered. Then I stood with my eyes closed. I took in a deep breath, held it for a moment before silently releasing it through my nose. I opened my eyes and signaled to Murray, who had been watching from his headstand. _Christ… he was still doing that shit. _

He slowly dropped his legs to the floor, came to his feet, and strolled over.

"You're good, man, I can see it. Rolling through on those neck bridges all smooth like. You've been staying in shape."

Murray always had a habit of talking too much for my taste, and it would seem that he maintained that habit, "You want to start standing, or on the ground?" I asked.

"Whatever you want, man," he said. "It's your place."

If he intended that comment to rattle me, he'd failed. But I did feel some irritation, mild for the moment. I made a mental note that I might hesitate to follow the decorum ordinarily demanded when an opponent tapped out from a submission hold.

I nodded and started circling, lowering my center of gravity. He got the idea and soon followed suit. We closed and I took the back of his neck in my right hand, my elbow down, pressed in against his clavicle and chest, controlling his forward movement. He grabbed a similar hold with his right and yanked my head toward his, the movement fast enough to almost be a head butt. I looked down in time to take the impact on the top of my skull, where it didn't do anything more than hurt. Needless to say, my irritation from earlier edged up a notch. But before I had a chance to enact my fury upon him, he placed me in a neck hold and started jerking me left, right, forward, and back. He was trying to throw off my balance, using his hand and elbow confidently and effectively, which showed some training, and he was strong as hell. I knew that a single misstep and it'd be all over.

_Alright then, time to change tactics…_ I snapped his neck toward me, and made a feint with my left hand, he instinctively fought against it, throwing his entire weight backwards and bringing his arm up in a defensive guard. I flowed with him and used the momentum to launch myself into the air under him. I wrapped my legs around his waist and dragged him down to the mat, he landed hard on his back and the air was knocked out of him. I released the grip I had on his waist and grabbed his arm. I wrapped my body around it, using my knees to lock his arm in place, using my hips to bend his arm at the elbow against its natural range of movement. I arched my body back, pulling his arm taut, and he yelled as a result of my arm bar technique.

I was about to question his motive for being here, when the unthinkable happened. My body started to straighten out, soon I found myself hunched over, and before I knew it, I was inches off the ground. _Son of a bitch! He's actually lifting me up in this position?_

Murray was beginning to sit up, his massive body and muscles straining to get him back up into a more advantageous position. I strained to keep him down but that was a losing battle.

He got on one knee and tried to stand up, but I wasn't going to let him. I repositioned myself snaking my legs around his neck, leveraging his arm and soon we were locked in an eternal death struggle. His face strained with effort, turning red, redder than he already naturally was. He let out a gut roar, and that apparently gave him all the adrenaline he needed, because in the next moment I was five feet off the ground, only to immediately crash back down onto it with a hard and painful _thud._ He repeated the move two more times, on the third, I released my grip while in midair, and the sudden change in weight distribution threw him off balance and he began to fall forward.

He threw his palms up to stop his face from hitting the mat. I made a move for him, but he sensed me and tried to scramble away. I caught up with him and while we scuffled I managed to throw my right leg over his left and across his body and to catch his left toes under my right armpit. Before he could kick free, I over hooked his heel with the inside of my right wrist; clasped my hands together and clamped my elbows to my sides; and arched back and twisted to my left in my own little demonstration of sambo prowess, a classic heel hook.

Despite the name however, the attack is to the knee join, not the heel. The heel serves only as the lever, and I had a nice grip on Murray's. There was no getting out of this one, no matter how strong he was. He tried to kick with his right leg, but from this position the kicks were feeble. I twisted a fraction more and he gave up that strategy.

"Tap, tap," he said, "You got me."

"…"

"Hey man, I give up." He repeated. "Let me up."

"Who sent you?"

Fear crept into his voice. "Hey, I said 'tap!' Come on now!"

I twisted another fraction and he yelped. "Who. Sent. You?" I said in a staunched manner, letting him hear the coldness in each word of the question.

"You know who sent me," he said, grimacing.

"Yeah? How did he know where to look?"

"I don't know!"

He tried to push my leg off. I squeezed my knees tighter and twisted his heel another millimeter.

"Fuck!" he said, loud enough for the other members to hear. "C'mon man, I seriously don't know!"

His breathing was getting more labored, I looked into his eyes.

"Hey, Murray," I said, my voice calm, almost a whisper. "I'm going to count to three, and if you haven't told me what I want to know… I'm going to twist as hard as I can. Ready? One. Two. Thr—"

"The Three Musketeers!" he screamed.

That response caused a sharp pang in my heart, and numbed me.

"He… he remembered how much you loved reading 'The Three Musketeers', so when he was searching for you, and stumbled upon a 'Henri Dumas' in Paris, he did an extensive background check on him. He linked the recent relocation, limited available information, and the odds of the same last name of the famous French author, and assumed you were him!"

I didn't say anything.

"Hah, good o' Sly, using the first book he's ever read author's name for his own, what was it you used to say? _Un pour tous, tous pour un!" _– All for one, one for all.

I noticed that several of the dojo's members were watching us, including Carlos, the founder of the academy and its chief instructor. No one was moving to interfere, recognizing, as Brazilians do, that this problem was _homem homem_, or "man to man" and was not yet their concern. Still, they would step in if the situation worsened, the Brazilians have a strong code of honor, but they also know that there is nothing honorable in torturing the man you beat. I released his leg and disengaged.

The tension ran out of his body and he slumped onto his back, cradling his injured knee. "Oh, man, I can't believe you did that, after all we've been through?" He said. "That was totally unnecessary, and messed up, man."

I didn't respond.

"What if I really hadn't known, huh? What would have happened then?"

I shrugged. "Surgery to reconstruct the anterior and posterior cruciate ligaments and menisci, then maybe six to twelve month rehabilitation. Lots of painkillers that wouldn't work nearly as well as you want.

"Shit," he grunted. A minute or so passed. Then he sat up and looked at me. He flexed his leg and flashed his indefatigable grin.

"I almost had you, man. And you know it."

"Sure," I said, looking at him. "Almost." I stood. I did some stretches to ensure that I could move my body the way I want to, there was a slight twinge in my back, as it was sore from the beating I got from hitting the mat.

"Man I'm famished." Murray said beside me, "You want to get out of here and get something to eat? My treat."

I nodded. "Let's go somewhere where we can talk."

We grabbed our bags and left without changing, he protested that he would have liked to washed up first, but I wasn't going to risk him having a phone and calling his team, or handler. I took him along a circuitous series of quiet neighborhood streets. Twice we got in and out of taxis. I stayed with generic countersuveillance techniques, not wanting to take specific advantage of the area's features lest he conclude by my intimate knowledge of the local terrain that I must be a resident. He knew what I was doing and didn't protest.

As we continued, we walked through a park, but by that time I knew we were clean. The rain had stopped and we strolled down a paved road that doubled as a pedestrian walking, and bicycle cycling route. The sound of our footfalls on the wet pavement was the only thing disturbing the tranquility of this moment.

A minute passed. Neither of us spoke.

"We done with the spy stuff?" Murray asked me.

I nodded, and after a moment he went on.

"Nice setup you got going here," he said. "Good weather, good sights, great food . . . and man, the women! I've been falling in love maybe two, three times a day. First morning, I got to my hotel, girl at the reception desk, man, they practically had to resuscitate me she was so fine."

"You could be a travel writer." I told him.

"Hey, I'd take it. It's tough for guys like us, you know? You get a certain résumé; you only get hired for certain jobs."

_And what is your job? _I wanted to ask, but decided against it. "You seem to be doing alright," I observed.

He kicked a pebble off the road and into the grass.

"Sure is nice here, though. You been here long?"

His southern hayseed accent was getting thicker. I wasn't going to fall for it, but no sense calling him on it, either. Better to have him assume that I was underestimating him the way he was used to by others.

"Couple of months," I told him. "I move around a lot, so people like you can't find me."

He frowned. "C'mon man, I don't mean you any harm. What else was I going to do? You and I, we're a different breed, there ain't going to be many companies that would hire us, and we all need to make a living. There are those in the same field as us, the lucky ones that are now guarding some rich jackass somewhere, doing threat assessments, living the good life in the guest quarters of a McMansion. The really lucky ones teach Hollywood types how to act like soldiers, or they get to blow shit up for the cameras in the movies that are going to be shown worldwide. And the unlucky ones? After they get out of the military, and their service is now no longer needed, what can they do? They get jobs as mall security guards, and rent-a-cops… and there is no way in hell I'm spending the rest of my life in some mall chasing after shoplifters, no sir. So here I am."

"Why not go with Blackwater, or one of the other private military companies?

He shrugged. "I tried it. But I discovered that the corporate world just didn't offer me appropriate financial opportunities. And you know what they say about opportunity, buddy, and '_it only knocks once_.'" He gave me a subtle glance.

We were silent again, but this time it was I who broke the ice. "Why'd they send you?"

He reached down and rubbed his knee. "You know why. We know each other; they figured you'd trust me." He smiled. "Don't you?"

"Sure," I said without looking at him. "Completely."

"Well, that's it," he went on, pretending he was too slow to understand sarcasm. "Plus, I figured they want you to hear what they had in mind, and what they're willing to offer you, and they're using me as proof to get you interested. I'm like a customer reference, you know what I mean?"

"Sure," I repeated.

"Okay, so here's the score. I've been doing some work for Uncle Sam, deniable shit, off the books, the kind of stuff you're into. High risk, high 'if you screw up, we'll deny that we know you' kinda deal, but lucrative."

I just nodded.

"They thought you might be interested. But contacting you wasn't my idea, by the way. I didn't even know you were still around, man. A lot of people in our line of work, they're not breathing so much these days."

"Whose idea then?"

"Look, there's a program. Something new, something big. They're hiring people like me and you, paying good money, are what I'm saying."

"Murray, do you know what a 'pronoun' is?"

He frowned. Then he face brightened. "Ah, I know what you mean. I keep saying 'they', and not telling you who really."

I looked at him and waited.

He went back to a frown, and shook his head. "C'mon, man, you know who 'they' is. Christians In Action." He shivered in mock excitement. "The Company."

"Right."

"They've got something big going on," he repeated his sales pitch, "You should hear it from them."

I remained silent all the way until we both exited the opposite end of the park. Murray let out a sigh of relief.

"Honestly, son, I didn't think I'd make it all the way til the other side. When we started walking through the park, where there ain't nothing but trees, not a living soul around. I thought for sure you were going to end it right there and then. You're one scary Raccoon mister Cooper."

I instinctively scanned around to see if anyone was within earshot of our conversation, upon hearing my name being mentioned, but was relieved to see that the street we were on was as deserted as the park was.

"The thought did cross my mind, but I thought I'd at least hear you out first."

He smiled at me. "Good one."

I turned to face him, not returning his smile.

His face blanched. "Well uh, anyway. I've got a number for you to call."

I wrote down the number down in code, then left him there and made my way back to my apartment. I did a number of countersurveillance routes along the way, I had a feeling Murray's story was on the up and up, but no sense in getting sloppy.

As soon as I opened my door I felt something was amiss. My sense heightened and I got into an attack position, I lowered my center of gravity and skulked into the doorway. A million thoughts rush through my head, but the most predominate one was: _Is that coffee I smell?_

I stood up, less paranoid and more confused. I walked into my living room, and there on the table, were two cups of coffee, steam dancing as it rose into the air. Across the table, someone was seated taking a sip from his cup. He put it down when he saw me come in.

"Hello Sly, it's been a long time." Said the Turtle.

**A/N: **Well there you have it, chapter seven. I have to say that it was indeed difficult to write this piece, as I had already bloody written it. Not only did Hurricane Sandy knock out my power, so that I couldn't post anything during that week or the week after, apparently the water damage somehow got into the electrical wiring of my old apartment building and thus resulting in a surge that fried my computer completely. I had to spend the next two weeks waiting until the suppliers restocked their hardware for me to purchase all the necessary parts to build a brand new computer, good news is I have the most advance and up to date personal computer, tech wise, but it cost me a little under 1.5k, so not too happy about it as I normally would be.

So I do apologize for my VERY late posts, I actually wrote up 4 chapters for Heart of Darkness, and 1-2 for Sly as a fox (a series I've been meaning to get back to, but with finals and what not coming up it's been hard, but during winter break it'll be off of hiatus.) But because my hard drive was burnt and leaking battery acid, I lost all of my files and word documents I had on it. Meaning that I'd had to re-re-imagine the stories in my head, and every time I did a run through, I kept missing a crucial part of the story, and in the end I said "Bah, screw it" and am now starting a new.

Okay there's my rant I hope y'all didn't forget about me, I'm still writing for the website just a lot of issues have been happening. This one will probably be atrocious to English speakers and readers, I have yet to install a working copy of Microsoft word, so I had to type this up in notepad, and F7 it does not. (For all those who know don't know what I'm talking about, F7 is the key command for spell/grammar check in MWord). Anyway, I'll be working more on Heart of Darkness, and hopefully I'll be able to post another chapter up when I can get around to re-re-re-re-re-re-re writing it. I'll catch you all next time. –J.L.


	8. Chapter 8: Honeypot

**A/N & Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights to any of the characters that are affiliated with _Sucker Punch Productions (2002-05)_, _Nihilistic Software (2011)_, and/or _Sanzaru Games (2012-Present)_. I do however, own their products and highly recommend to those who don't, to please support the creators of the franchise. The portrayal of their characters in this fan fiction is just that, of fiction; they do not in any way reflect the "actual-true fictional storyline" created by the *stated above* developers of the Sly Cooper franchise.

**To NinjaxSketcheartx – **I'm glad to hear that my work is a tool of inspiration when it comes to first person point of views. I'll work on creating a more vivid image when I describe action scenes to ensure that you can fully appreciate it next time. Thank you as always for your review.

**To cheesebread222 – **Thank you, I also found it to be a good chapter. I managed to install a working copy of Microsoft essential based programs so I now have Word. Thank goodness for the F7 auto correct button! I'm glad you enjoyed my depiction of Murray; I tried to keep him similar in a few ways to the original, but still give him a notable difference from Sucker Punches' Murray, and my Murray. Thanks again for your review.

Well it would seem that I've peaked and am at the other end of the bell curve, sliding back to the cracks of this website's Sly Cooper forum, becoming an unknown. However, that will not deter me, and I'll continue writing. I appreciate all of you who continue to read, follow, and review my works, and I hope to hear from more of you in the near future. With that said and done: here is chapter eight of _Sly Cooper: Heart of Darkness._

**Chapter Eight:** Honeypot

After leaving Scar's suite, I took a long and solitary walk along the waterfront. I wanted to think about what had just happened, about what I wanted to happen next.

Carmelita. Who was she? How would her presence affect my operation? The same questions, of course, that she would be asking about me.

I knew from both encounters, as brief as they were, she was trained; therefore likely to be working with an organization, rather than on some sort of private mission. There were too many possible scenarios and factors that I'll have plenty of time to mull over about, but the fact of the matter is: she was no friend of Scar's. She was with him because she wanted something from him, something he kept, and that something she believes is stored in his laptop. However, she hadn't managed to get access to it yet, and there lies the problem.

I considered. By conspiring to get me out of the suite, she had sided, at least temporarily, with me. We shared a secret. That secret might become the basis for cooperation, if our interests were sufficiently aligned. But she also had reason to view me as a threat. There was some hard evidence of her operation against Scar, in the form of her dual-purpose cell phone she was using to try and decrypt the laptop with, and I wasn't lying about the boot logs; a cutthroat like Scar would be paranoid, and if someone were to steer that paranoia in a certain direction, he'd almost definitely check it out for himself. Carmelita had defused the situation by complying with my demands, which goes to prove that she was good under pressure.

I went through the entire scenario in my head over and over; I concluded that the risk of a meeting seemed manageable for both parties. Moreover, avoiding her, and losing an opportunity to acquire additional information, would make proceeding against Scar more difficult, possible more dangerous. Not an easy call, but in the end I decided to go see her at the Mandarin casino.

I pulled out my cellphone, slipped in the SIM card and battery, powered it up, and put it to my ear. I dialed in the number I memorized and called Bentley. It was late, but he answered on the very first ring.

"It's me," I said.

"Is it a coincidence, or do you just enjoy calling me in the middle of the night?"

"This time it's both."

"What do you need?"

"Information," I said. "Anything you have on a woman I ran into, although I don't have much for you to go on. She uses the name Carmelita, probably an alias, I think she's European, but I'm not sure what nationality. She's tall, cobalt blue hair, striking looks."

There was a pause. "You need this information operationally, or are you trying to get a date?"

Maybe he thought that busting my chops would foster a sense of lost camaraderie we once had, or that it would otherwise put us on a more equal footing. Either way, I didn't care for it.

"She's here together with our mutual friend," I said.

"That's not much to go on."

"Is that an echo I hear?" I asked, my voice an octave lower.

There was another pause, which I found satisfying, and then he responded. "I'm just trying to tell you that it's really not much to go on, and if you're expecting results you're going to have to…"

"I'm not interested in your assessment of the difficulty, what I am interested in, is your ability to find the information I require to clean up _your_ shit. Can you get it, or not?"

There was a third pause, and I imagined him reddening on the other end of the line, from frustration, anger, or embarrassment, it really didn't matter which. To be able to elicit a raw emotion shows the hierarchy in a relationship.

I was about to begin another psychological attack, but I heard a voice in the background, muffled but audible.

"That's Sly, isn't it?" the voice said. "Let me talk to him!"

I shook my head. Christ, I knew that twang. It was Murray.

There was an exchange that I couldn't make out, there was a bit of shouting and grunts of effort, followed by a hiss of static and an unknown clattering sound. Then Murray was on the phone, his voice booming and full of amusement.

"Hey, buddy, sounds like you're having yourself a good time there! Something about a lady? Are we talking blonde, or brunette? Or Asian? I love those Asian ladies."

He must have snatched the phone from Bentley, against his protests. Secret service agents get no respect.

"What are you doing out there?" I asked, smiling, despite myself.

"Oh you know, just a meeting with my handler. Going over this and that, you know, 'hush hush' stuff, things you wouldn't be interested in."

"I see."

"Hey now that I got you on the line, I've been meaning to ask you something."

This ought to be good. "Shoot."

"Is it true that you threatened our poor mister Bentley with a coffee enema?"

I stopped walking, closed my eyes, and grinned to suppress a laugh. "Now, am I the type of person that would inflict harm on old acquaintances?"

A boisterous laugher erupted on the other end of the line.

"Tell me what happened. Did you end up doing it? You did, didn't you? Is that why mister sour puss here, was in such a foul mood when he came back? Please for the love of god, tell me you did!"

I couldn't help but laugh a little, and again, despite myself I said, "Next time. You mind putting him back on the phone?"

"All right, all right, I'll hold you to that promise. Just wanted to say hello, and welcome aboard."

"That was kind of you."

There was another short static hiss, and then Bentley's voice came back on. "Hey."

"Sounds like you've got a little date of your own out there," I said, unable to resist.

"I wouldn't call it that." He sounded glum.

I chuckled. "Not unless you've done hard time with a cellmate named Bubba."

He laughed at that, which was good. I needed him to understand who was in charge of this little op, but I didn't want to beat him down too hard. His goodwill, his nativity, his naïve sense of fairness, was a potential asset, and not something to toss away needlessly.

"I'll check the bulletin board," I told him. "If you find anything about the woman, just put it up there."

"Okay."

I paused, almost hesitated to ask. "Did you gather any information about the last person I told you about?"

"I'm still in the middle of getting it; it's hard to dig through private information without being noticed. It'll take more time, but I should be able to get something soon. I'll post that also when I get it."

There was another moment of silence, then added, "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," he said, sounding surprised, and I thought he might be smiling.

At about six o'clock the following evening. I showered, shaved, dressed accordingly, and looked at myself in the hotel bathroom mirror. Then a thought occurred to me. _What the hell am I doing?_ I shook my head, slipped the hotel keycard into my coat pocket and headed out to the Mandarin casino. Carmelita had said to meet at eight, but I like to show up early for meetings. It helps prevent any unwanted and unforeseen surprises.

I used the back street entrance, preferring to avoid the hotel lobby for the moment. Juliette was out shopping, but I wanted to minimize the chances of my running into her while she was coming or going. I walked up the escalator, gave a slight and courteous nod to the guards, who returned the gesture, and went inside.

The room was large, and to my added benefit, largely empty. The pace would pick up later in the evening, around the time it was for us to meet, it was well planned out, the more guests there were the less we stood out. However, for now, the action comprised just a few lonely souls, their play styles and body language, joyless, aimless, as though they'd been looking for a livelier party and found themselves stuck with this one instead.

I spotted Carmelita immediately. She was one of a handful of people quietly attending the room's lone baccarat table, and the only non-Asian in sight. She was dressed plainly, in black pants and a black, shoulderless top. Her hair was pulled back and I saw no signs of makeup or jewelry. If she'd been trying to downplay her looks, she hadn't been notably successful.

I scanned for the usual hotspots, doing an unobtrusive scan of the room, as if I was taken aback by the majesty of the room itself. Nothing set off any alarms, and my assessment that she wouldn't yet do anything precipitous seemed correct. Although I noted to myself, similar to how I was certain that Murray wouldn't have done anything in Carlos' dojo back in Paris, is the same reason why I was certain there wouldn't be anything to worry about now. The security, cameras, witnesses, all equated that this would have made a poor choice of venue for an ambush. No, an attack, if there is one, would happen at a later time.

I bought a handful of chips, then took a seat next to her.

"Early for baccarat," I said, meaning it's early for our scheduled appointment, but trying to be oblique in case anyone nearby happened to speak English.

"For the both of us, it seems," she replied, putting her chips down on player and tossing me a glance.

I smiled, and then placed a bet on the bank. "I hate to get a late start. You get there, and the place is already filled up, the odds aren't as good."

She returned my smile, fully understanding the subtext, and this is when I got my first good look at her eyes. They were deep brown, and they seemed not only to regard, but somehow to assess, with intelligence and even some humor.

"Yes, early is better," she said. "It's a good thing not everyone realizes it. Otherwise you could never beat the crowds."

I noted that her English, though accented, was idiomatic. She would have earned it young enough to pick up the idiom, but not quite young enough to eradicate the accent. My cataloging of new information about her was interrupted when the banker came into my peripheral view as he dealt the cards. My eyes lingered on her for a moment longer, and then refocused at the two objects in front of me.

The dealer turned over the cards. Carmelita won, I lost. She collected her chips without looking at me, but made no attempt to hide her smile.

I wanted to get her someplace where we could talk. The casino was a good starting point because it offered us a neutral venue. Also, it provide us a sort of automatic cover story; if anyone, Scar, for example were to suddenly stumbled in right at this moment, our presence together would look like a coincidence, each of us presumably having arrived separately for a few rounds of cards or dice. But we weren't going to get anywhere sitting here at a baccarat table. Besides, I was losing money.

"I was thinking about going somewhere for a drink," I said. "Care to join me?"

She looked at me for a moment, as if contemplating the sales pitch, then said, "Sure."

We left through the street exit. As soon as we were out of earshot of the casino's few patrons, she said, "Not the hotel bar. I'm too well known here. We'll get a taxi and go somewhere else." She added, "There's not much chance that any of my acquaintances will show up right now, but just in case, the story is: we ran into each other in the Mandarin casino. It was dead. I mentioned that I was going to try the Lisboa. You asked if I wouldn't mind us splitting a cab together. Got it?"

I was impressed, although unsurprised. She was obviously intelligent, and has proven on numerous occasion her ability to think on her feet.

"Okay," was all I said.

I took us to the Bamboo café, a place I'd found near the new Macaw Cultural Association, while I was getting to know the city, patrolling the grounds before Scar arrived. The locale catered to a younger crowd, the ground floor featured an oppressively loud band playing some sort of house music, all around the stage as well as what you would consider as the "dance floor" was a bunch of what I assumed are, by now, deafened teenagers gyrating to the beat.

We headed upstairs, where it was darker and quieter, and sat at a corner table in a pair of oversized beanbag chairs. The other seating consisted mostly of couches, some of them occupied by couples, a few of them locked in intimate embraces that the shadows only partially obscured. A pretty Portuguese waitress brought us menus. They were written in Chinese and Portuguese. Carmelita smiled and said, "I'll have what you're having."

In the dim light her eyes looked more gray than brown. I liked the way the lighting softened her features, the way it rendered her eyes, even her smile, alluringly ambiguous.

I glanced at the menu and thought for a moment. I couldn't make out anything that was on it, but then a very slight grin appeared on my face, nothing too noticeable in this dim setting. I put the menu down and looked at our waitress.

"We'll have one _Wong Chi Kei, _one _Minchee_ please, and for drinks we'll have two _caipirinhas," _which I knew from recent experience would be delicious in the tropical heat.

The waitress gathered the menus, and departed. We were quiet for a moment. Then Carmelita leaned toward me and, looking into my eyes asked, "Well? You have something you want to give me?"

I looked at her. Why was it that her question seemed suffused with double entendre? She was attractive, of course, more than attractive, but that wasn't all of it. She had a way of looking at me with a sort of confident sexual appreciation. Then it dawned on me, _that was it_. She was seeing me just the way I might hope a desirable female like her would see me. And she made it seem so natural, so real. I would have to be careful.

"Like what?" I asked, curious to see her reaction if I hit a few back at her.

"Do I need to be more explicit? She asked, maybe suggestive again.

I remained quiet until our food arrived; I thank the waitress and picked up my utensils. Just before I was about to dig in, I decided to surprise her.

"The thing about the video was a bluff," I told her, while putting a piece of meat into my mouth. The mixture of molasses and soy sauce really brought out the taste of the beef.

She paused, to my satisfaction, and then said, "You're just going give me all your leverage?"

I shrugged. "Sure I am," I swallowed my mouthful. "I think you know that I was afraid that, without it, you might take a chance on waking Sc…" I paused. "Solomon." I continued to eat my meal.

"You're not concerned that, without it, I might take other chances now?"

I looked up at her. Placed my utensils on my plate, and dabbed my mouth with my napkin.

"Of course I am."

"Then why are you telling me all of this?"

I folded my arms across my chest, and said most matter-of-factly, "I'm not a threat to you."

She raised an eyebrow. "This is like, what, a dog showing its belly?"

I smiled. "Well, I've already seen yours."

She smiled back. "Yes, yes you have."

The smile lingered, along with her eyes, and I felt something stirring down south. But I thought, _don't fall for it you idiot. This is how she plays it; how she gets everyone to drop their guard, get what she wants out of her marks._

"Well, you don't have a video for me," she said, after a moment. She was still looking into my eyes. "So what do we do next?"

The stirring worsened. I decided that it'd been better off if I could have just removed the damned thing and left it in a drawer for the evening. But I saw a less extreme means of defending myself. I thought for a moment about the numerous scores of other men she would have played before me, about how, in her eyes, I was simply a new fool, a new mark for her to lead down that road by his dick, and manipulated. The thought irritated me, which was what I needed to get a better handle of the situation.

"Hey, Carmelita," I said softly, letting her see the coldness in my eyes, "I'm not here to flirt with you, I think it'd be best for the both of us, if you would cut the crap you're trying to pull." I picked up my utensils again. "We might be able to help each other, but not if you keep trying to play me like I'm some sort of testosterone-crazed teenage kid and you're my date at the prom. Okay?"

She smiled and cocked her head, and of course her poise only added to her appeal. "Why would I be trying to play you?" she asked.

I wanted to snap her out of her comfort zone; I hated the fact that she was continuing this farce, but I couldn't allow myself to get aggravated, I wanted to show her through my actions that this is all it is: a pleasant conversation while eating. Also it would have been a waste to have anger ruin such an excellent meal.

"Because you're good at it," I said, occasionally looking at her while I ate, and gestured for her to do the same. She picked up her fork and gingerly pushed at the contents of her meal with conflicted uncertainty and interest. I waited until the precise moment of when she finally summoned the courage to begin her meal. As her fork was about to meet her lips, I began my attack.

"Hell, if they gave out Academy Awards for what you do, I think you'd get best actress."

It was as if she received an electrical jolt to the system, it was an amazing thing to watch when you know you caught someone completely off guard. The body stiffens ever so slightly, almost invisible to the naked eye, all actions cease to function, as represented with the fork frozen, hovering just centimeters away from her lips; then, after the brain has had enough time to assess the situation, the body relaxes and systems return to normal. All of this can happen in a sum of less than two seconds.

"You seem to have a rather low opinion of yourself," she said, finally putting the food into her mouth.

I smiled, because I'd been half expecting something like that. Most men won't do anything that could lessen their perceived chances of taking a gorgeous woman to bed. They're horrified even at the thought that something might accidentally dim the temporary glow of an attractive woman's sexual adulation, les all those longing looks be exposed as farce, deflating the always fragile façade of the needy male ego. Carmelita knew the dynamic. She had just explicitly acknowledged, even invoked it.

"Actually, I have a rather high opinion of myself," I said. "But I've seen you working Solomon, and he's smarter than most. Know what you can do, and I want you to stop doing it with me. Assuming you can stop, of course. Or have you been running this game for so long that you can't help yourself anymore?"

For the first time I saw her lose a little of her façade. Her head retracted a fraction in a movement that was not quite a flinch, and her eyes dilated in a way that told me she was receiving a helpful dose of adrenaline.

"What do you want then?" she asked, after a moment. Her expression was neutral now, but her eyes were angry, her posture more rigid than it had been a moment earlier. The combination made her look quietly dangerous. I realized this was my first peek at the person behind the mask, my first chance to see something other than what she wanted me to see.

The crazy thing about it all was, in a way, it made her look better than ever. It was like seeing a woman's real beauty after she's removed the makeup that only served to obscure it, a glimpse of a geisha the more stunning, after shorn of her ritual white camouflage.

"The same thing you do," I told her. "I want to make sure that we don't trip all over each other trying to do our jobs, and both get killed in the process."

"And what are our jobs?"

I smiled. "This is going to be tricky, isn't it?" I said.

"Very," she said.

"Why don't we start with what we know," I said. "You want something from Solomon's computer."

She raised her eyebrows but said nothing. That hint of incongruous good humor was back in her eyes.

"But you haven't managed to get it yet," I went on. "Solomon keeps the computer with him at all times, and when you finally got a crack at it, you couldn't get past the password encryption."

"We should talk about the other things we know," She said.

I smiled; she was trying to turn the tables. Cute. "And that would be?"

"Like what you want with Solomon."

I shrugged. "I've got other business with him. What's on his computer doesn't concern me."

"Yes… you did seem uninterested in his computer. More interested in him."

I said nothing. There was no advantage in confirming or denying any of her insights. I just continued my meal nonchalantly.

"And he was right there. Unconscious. Helpless." She paused for dramatic effect. "I couldn't help but ask myself, 'why did this person, leave without finishing what he came for?'"

"You don't know what I came for," I said, but of course she did.

"You'd knocked me down, and I was obviously unarmed," She said, looking at me. "I couldn't have stopped you even if I tried, we both know that. But you still didn't follow through."

I shrugged, still looking for a way to throw her off. _Damn she was smart._

"Maybe I didn't want to harm a naked woman," I said.

She shook her head. "I've known some hard men, men who can act without hesitation, without compunction. I recognize the type."

"I wasn't expecting you. You startled me."

She smiled, a smile that said: _come on, you can do better than that._ And I knew I wasn't changing her diagnosis. "Maybe. Or maybe your 'job' dealing with Solomon has to be carried out in a… circumspect way. So that no one would know that any foul business was done. And you couldn't pull that off with someone else in the room."

I hadn't expected her to follow through with her line of reasoning. I'm usually exceptional in putting myself in other people's shoes, anticipating their next move; however she in one single line of questioning, reasoned and evidently out played me.

"It's funny, I'm asking myself some of the same things about you," I said, interrupting her train of thought. "Why hasn't she or her people just taken the laptop and run? From what I've seen, you've had plenty of chances."

Now it was her turn to smile and feign ignorance.

"Let me guess," I went on. "If Solomon realized that the information on his laptop had been compromised, he would implement a sort of countermeasure in which would render the stolen data useless."

I looked at her. Something in my disposition alerted her that I just came to realize something, and her smile began to wane a little.

"No… let me amend that. Because if Solomon were the only one you were worried about, you'd just put him to sleep yourself and take the laptop at your leisure. So he's not the only one who might take countermeasures if it's discovered that the computer has been tampered with or gone missing. There are others. Other players in the grand scheme of things, people or organizations who would be affected by the information you're trying to acquire. And, when you acquire it, it's critical that they do not know."

Carmelita's smile all but disappeared from her face, and I knew it that I was right.

"It seems that I'm not the only one whose moves might have to be… 'Circumspect.'"

We were both quiet for a moment; we both took a sip of the _caipirinhas._

"Yes," she started to say. "Stealing is easy. Stealing without the victim knowing he's been robbed? That takes some doing."

She placed down her frosted glass. She said, "It seems that we're in mirror-image positions. Maybe we can help one another."

"I'm not sure I follow you," I told her, although I thought I did.

She shrugged. "Your presence to say the least makes it difficult for me to do my job. My presence makes it hard for you to do yours. Mirror images."

"Your mirrors are rather distorted," I said, taking a swallow of the _caipirinha. _"If, for example: something was to happen to you, Solomon would get suspicious, he'd take immediate action, maybe leave the country, and it'd be difficult for anyone to track him down. Or, in another scenario, if something were to happen to him that doesn't appear in a 'circumspect' way; issues may, or may not, arise for me when we both go our separate ways. But if something happens to me…"

Her smile broadened in a way that told me she was pleased that I made a connection she was expecting would be beyond me, and I knew that she was well aware of this flaw in her "mirror image" theory.

"Yes," she said, "That's true. My people made the same point when we discussed the situation. Some of them wanted to send a team in to remove you."

"Did you tell them they'd have to get in line?"

She laughed. "I told them I thought that kind of hostile action would be a mistake. I saw the way you assessed the room when you came into the casino. I see the way you subtly check your back all the time. Even this table, you chose it because it was in the corner. So you could sit with your back to the wall."

"And you, too."

"You knew I wouldn't let you put my back to the stairs, especially after you chose the place. This was a compromise."

"That's true."

"Anyway, I told my people that moving against you would be a poor option, although we couldn't rule it out if you insisted on behaving unreasonably. If you gave us no choice."

I looked at her, letting her see some coldness again. "I doubt that your people were able to get you any background information on me," I told her, "But if they had, they would have told you that I react poorly to threats. Even irrationally."

"I'm not threatening you."

"Convince me of that. Help me get close, and I'll do what I'm here to do. You can take his computer when I'm done."

She shook her head. "That won't work."

"Why not?"

She shook her head again. "It just won't. I can't tell you the specifics or why. But if you want to get access to Solomon, we'll have to do things my way."

"And that way would be?"

"You stay out of our way."

Adrenaline surged through me, and it was difficult to maintain my breathing. It was what I thought. The information on Solomon's laptop would lose its value if he died before Carmelita accessed it.

I looked at her and said, "Even if I needed your help, and I don't, why would I trust you? Once you've gotten what you wanted from the computer, you'd just walk away. And that's just the bad case scenario, in the worst case; you do all of that, then, what's stopping you from sending in the dogs after me to tie up loose ends."

She shrugged. "But that's your worst case, isn't it? You wait a few days and then I'm out of your way. Your best case, though, is that I stick around to help you. And I'll tell you why you can believe me. It's because it would benefit us also, if, after we acquire what we need from his computer, Solomon were to expire naturally. As opposed to… violently.

"You're pretty confident that I could make that happen."

She shrugged again. "Your behavior in his suite tells me that was what you originally intended, if I hadn't gotten in the way." She took a sip of her drink, and replaced the glass on the table. "And if you're who we think you are, we're also quite confident that you have the capability."

I raised my eyebrows.

"You were right, I had my people run a background check on you," she went on. "I didn't have too much for them to go on: European descent, mid-twenties to early thirties, American-accented English, adept at close-quarters combat, good with surreptitious entry, very cool under pressure."

"I'm almost afraid to hear what you came up with." I smirked.

She laughed. "Well you of all people should know that you have nothing to fear… we came up with almost nothing."

"Almost nothing is still more than nothing."

"A little here and there, nothing from our databases; but we found some interesting tidbits from open sources, namely _Forbes_ magazines. A series of articles written by a reporter, that tells a tale of an expert assassin that skulked the streets of Japan that specializes in making murder look anything but."

"And I believe we're dealing with that person."

She sat there trying to read me.

I swallowed the last of my _caipirinha. _And placed the glass down.

"And besides," she said, when she figured I wasn't going to confirm or deny. "We wouldn't need to follow up on you. You're nothing more than a ghost, an apparition, a myth. Why would we risk losing good men to go after the boogeyman?"

I sat there for a moment, contemplating her proposition.

"How long are we talking about?" I asked.

"Not long. Two. Three days at most."

Again I went silent. She made a gesture to look at her watch, and started to stand.

"I'll leave first," she said, getting up. She didn't need to explain. We didn't want to be seen together. She started to open her purse.

"Just go," I told her. "I'll take care of it."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Our first date?" She said it only with that attractively wry humor, not playing the coquette.

I smiled at her. "Maybe you better pay up after all. I don't want you getting the wrong idea."

She looked at me for a moment, as though considering whether to say something. But in the end she only smiled, then turned and left. I imaged her checking the street through the windows downstairs before moving through the door.

I called for the check. The couples on the couches continued in their embraces, their soft laughter just reaching me above the music from the ground floor.

I paid the bill and left. I stood outside the entrance and wondered about what had just transpired, considering Carmelita's offer, and whether or not to trust her. My gut told me no, and strangely enough, I hoped my gut instinct was wrong.

**A/N:** Well there you have it, chapter eight of _Sly Cooper: Heart of Darkness._ I know it's a lot to read, but it was necessary I assure you to set up the rest of the story. I just wanted to say that: "I hope you all have a wonderful and merry Christmas, as today is Xmas eve. And that if you don't celebrate it, just have a pleasant Tuesday." Now that I'm finally finished with this semester's classes and am now on my winter break until the spring semester, I should be able to produce a few more chapters soon. And you never know I might even get off my lazy arse and type out a few _Sly Cooper: Sly as a fox_ chapters.

All in all, thank you all who continue to read and review my works. I'll see you all next chapter.


	9. Chapter 9: At Arm's Length

**A/N & Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights to any of the characters that are affiliated with _Sucker Punch Productions (2002-05)_, _Nihilistic Software (2011)_, and/or _Sanzaru Games (2012-Present)_. I do however, own their products and highly recommend to those who don't, to please support the creators of the franchise. The portrayal of their characters in this fan fiction is just that, of fiction; they do not in any way reflect the "actual-true fictional storyline" created by the *stated above* developers of the Sly Cooper franchise.

**To NinjaxSketcheartx – **Well once again I'd like to thank you for your earnest and honest review of my work, and I appreciate your view and standpoints of the chapter. Whether or not it's a character borrowed from another media (in this case, the Sly Cooper franchise), I try to make him or her have their own unique characteristics while using the essence of the original created character. This allows a better-rounded figure, and in this case, more "human". Well… more anthropomorphic human, but you understand where I'm going with this.

I decided to have Carmelita the one that initiate the flirtation, for the reason that: the usual dynamic of the pair is rather in modern era, considered quite sexist. "The male that does wrong, can do no wrong for his significant other… "The male being supposedly the more aggressive one, begins the dance and the woman while resistant in the beginning, begins to be worn down by a dominant male counterpart. I found this funny, as Carmelita to me at the least, seems like a character well rounded and more than capable to resist the urge of monsieur Cooper, even if his name _is _Sly_. _Also, the way I've made Sly up to be, he's hardened. Although we all succumb to our inner urges, falling prey to the strongest of the seven cardinal sins: lust sooner or later, he wouldn't be the first to initiate the forbidden dance.

Along with Bentley and Murray, I plan on making them more rounded in the near future, as they're still a work in progress. I had originally intended on having them being introduced slowly, one old familiar character in every _story_, but I remembered: "This isn't the proper forum in which to drag out plot devices and ideas, readers here prefer the 'here and now', rather than the 'wait for the buildup'". So their characters are… as stated, a work in progress, and I hope I don't disappoint in the near future.

Again, you're free to believe what you want for any of my stories. I, like Sly, will not confirm or deny the facts in which you're trying to fish for. You'll have to be at the same level as Carmelita to be able to entice answers you want out of me. All you can do now is sit there and wait to see how it all plays out.

Finally, for SaaF, I'm having a very hard time coming up with unique ideas for that story. To be able to snare my readers with interesting dialogue and a sense of wonder is much more difficult for me than this story. I'm better at writing physical descriptions, and create a template for which my reader senses can be immersed through the vivid going ons in the world. I'm more prone to write stories on the lines of Heart of Darkness, rather than a fantasy light hearted one like Sly as a Fox. But I'll try and persevere for that story, as it was my original first post onto this website.

Thank you again for your review, I hope you enjoyed your Saturnalia and the New Year celebration.

**To timexgone23 – **My, that's a mouthful. To receive praise from you certainly always brightens my day. I'll be honest. I think you and I have literally, gotten to the point where we have no more words to say to one another. We have already spouted out every possible English verbal compliment for one another's work, and for me to respond to your amazing review would probably go on to be twice as long as the one I typed out for Ninja.

We've both had this discussion before, via personal messages, and previous reviews for one another's work. To be able to dissect one another's writing is an amazing thing that excites my perversion of getting into intricate details, and laying things out bare to exam each and every aspect of what we're reading, and I must restrain myself to do so with your loving review.

I'm glad that you enjoy the intimate details that I put in my work, as I try my best to create an atmosphere of drawing my readers into the actual environment, the world in which the character is living in. This, of course, is unbelievably difficult when the world you're constructing is text. The feeling of immersion when reading, to be able to grasp the senses of the reader by making them forget that they're in a world of their own is an amazing feeling, and I strive to one day perfect it.

Elaborating in my previous text block, I try to do what I do with the world and magnify that with my characters. The world, in which characters live in, can be drastically and vastly different from our own, so that can always be left to be artificial. However; the characters of that world on the other hand, will require being believable and stand on their own in order to have readers continue to the very end. I can't tell you how disappointed I was when the author who brought me into the world of pulp fiction: James Patterson, with his flagship character Alex Cross, from the _Alex Cross_ series' became two dimensional. In the beginning it was an amazing series, but as the series progressed, the enemies, the character developments became dull and boring. The epic climaxes that dedicated followers were waiting for since book one, fizzled and left a bad taste in our mouths in book ten. I try to keep the spice going if you will.

Basically speaking, "I'm glad you enjoy the world and the characters I've put in that world."

Elementary, my dear Meg. I deduced that the dynamic between the two of these well-known and iconic characters were one very similar to that of a Stratford-upon-Avon English author's tragic tale of two star crossed lovers whose deaths ultimately reconcile their feuding families.

"But J.L!" you ejaculate, "It's more than obvious that these two are destined to be together. Only a fool cannot see that for themselves!" Ah yes, it would seem that way to the pedestrian eye. But mine however, are anything but! You see my dear Meg, they're fated to be at each other's throats, never to truly embrace their feelings for one another, and in order to shelter themselves from their longing instinctual needs, they create a wall, one of most impenetrability… they will fight one another, keeping each other at arms lengths, and only the death of one or the other, will they finally see themselves for the fools that they are.

**Two important notices to all those who actually read my responses back to my reviewers:** For those who love Sherlock Holmes as much as I do, it's interesting to note that Holmes NEVER said the phrase: "Elementary, my dear Watson!" Holmes however, does use the word 'elementary' in _The Crooked Man_ but the phrase 'Elementary, my dear Watson' itself was coined by a man named Wodehouse twenty one years later in his novel _Psmth, Journalist_ in 1915.

And secondly, the word _ejaculate _is not used in the modern sexual manner, as I would never be so rude to do so to a lady. If you're well versed with Holmes, the word ejaculate means to exclaim something. "But Holmes!" I ejaculated, or "exclaimed". It is also interesting to know that Watson 'ejaculates' twice as often as Sherlock Holmes in Sir Conan Doyle's stories.

I'm glad that you took the time to review my review. And I'll be more than happy to review more of your work whenever I am available. I start my Master's degree program in the spring, so my schedule will be even more jam packed with things I'm obligated rather than wanting to do. But do review whenever you're available; you're not having it easy either. Feel free to just shoot me a personal message every now and then to shoot the breeze and complain about how much work we both have to do, it's nice to vent every now and then. I hope you had a merry Saturnalia, and have started on your New Year's resolutions.

Cheers, J.L

**Cheesebread222 - **I must say: you do catch the errors I tend to overlook. This time it wasn't a simple typo like writing "teh" rather than "the", this time was a complete oversight on my part. I've written a similar scene in my novel about giving a character description, and pretty much used that as a template for this dialogue. However, I was so immersed in my own deliverance that I completely forgot that we're talking about a world with anthropomorphic humanoid creatures, as opposed to humans. Thank you for catching that and I'll try to be more careful from now on.

I also hope you had an enjoyable Saturnalia, and an appreciative Happy New Year.

**I would also like to give a shout out… well, a text out. To an "altiareagle":** This person approached me via personal message, because he or she was interested in this story. This person enjoyed and appreciated my writing that they asked for some literary advice on how to improve their own writing for their own creative pieces. I would like to announce that I'm sorry for responding a few days late as I was busy, but that is and always will be a horrible excuse. I responded back, and typed out what I believe to be a whole article of common advice that I've been teaching and preaching over the years that would be the basic guidelines of how to begin, and continue a strong and interesting piece of literature.

So what I'm trying to say here is, if anyone else would like to discuss writing, in which you would like some advice, or even give me advice in how to improve our writing, please, feel free to message me. I am planning on becoming an educator, and our ability to communicate with one another in a coherent manner is what defines us as "learned creatures of higher intelligence", so feel free to spread what you know or what you want to know. I hope to see what kind of fan fiction that altiareagle will provide us in possibly, the near future. Keep out an eye for his or her work folks.

Okay with all of that said and done. Here is chapter nine of _Sly Cooper: Heart of Darkness._

**Chapter Nine:** At arm's length

Juliette and I spent the next two days doing the things tourists do. We toured the various Macau attractions. We visited Coloane Village and walked along the seafront promenade, where we came across _Lord Stow's Bakery_, which from what Juliette told me was a Macau culinary legend, serving some of the best Portuguese egg tarts in town. We of course couldn't help but to purchase a number of them, and they did not disappoint. We continued our exploration to a cobblestone-paved piazza where stood a monument and a lotus pond at its very center commemorating the liberation from the pirate's tyrannical rule that once held the village underneath their thumb. From there we toured the Portuguese churches and national museums. Followed up with some gambling in the Floating Casino. Juliette seemed to enjoy herself, although she was a professional and I couldn't really be certain. For me however, it all felt like waiting.

I found myself wishing that I didn't need the cover Juliette involuntarily provided. She was a sweet girl, and as much as I enjoyed her body; I enjoyed her company as well. It felt damned good to count the number of heads she turns by simply taking a stroll with her. However, all of those positive points couldn't negate the fact that Scar and Carmelita both knew I was staying at the Mandarin. The risk was manageable, of course: Scar had no way of knowing that I presented a threat, and Carmelita had no reason to move against me, at least for the time being. The risk was also necessary: if Scar finds out that I had checked out of the hotel but saw me again while he was still in Macau, it would look strange, suspicious… meaning that I had to stay put, and stay extra alert to my surroundings.

We took the TurboJet ferry to Hong Kong, otherwise known as the "pearl of the Orient"; I provided Juliette with some money to indulge herself in the island's many boutiques. I on the other hand, wandered, observing, imitating, and practicing the Hong Kong persona that helped me blend here and in Macau: the gait, the clothes, the expression. I wanted to be able to be a part of it, to meld in with the environment even though I was a foreigner. I strolled into an area where work-related oriented stores were adjacent to one another, and browsed their selections. I purchased a pair of nonprescription eyeglasses from a spectacle shop, I then picked up one of the utilitarian briefcases that so many businessmen in Hong Kong seemed to be carrying at all times, part of the local culture, I think, being comprised of a constant readiness to do business. I bought clothes in local stores, and placed them carefully inside the briefcase, to give the illusion of the heft and bulk of important documents being carried within. I was confident that, as long as I didn't open my mouth, no one would assume that I was anything other than a foreign business diplomat in Hong Kong to do some business, whatever it may be.

At the outset of the second of these excursions to Hong Kong the following day, I noticed an Arabian wolf standing in the lobby of the Macau Mandarin Oriental as Juliette and I moved through it. He had short sand colored fur, large ears, yellow eyes, and was looking rather smug in his hand tailored suit. He was new, not one of Scar's bodyguards. I noted his presence and position relative to ours, but of course gave no sign that he had even registered in my consciousness. He, on the other hand, was not as discreet. In the instant in which my gaze moved over his face, I saw that he was looking at me intently, almost in concentration, as if trying to place where he could have seen my face.

_Possibly general security for Scar. Assigned to watch the comings and goings, looking for something out of place, someone suspicious._

But my gut wouldn't buy that. His sudden appearance and his obvious recognition of me were too drastic to be put into place by someone of Scar's caliber.

_Carmelita._ I thought. I felt hot anger surging up from my stomach. I don't get suckered often, but she had suckered me. Lulled me into thinking that our interest could be aligned, that we could help one another… but they _were_ aligned, that was the thing. What she had told me and proposed that evening made sense. Moving against me, rather than trusting me to wait as I had told her I would, was unnecessarily risky. And even if she had decided to take action against me, she would know not to be so obvious. A non-Asian, standing in the lobby of the hotel, getting all squinty-eyed as he zeroed in on his primary target, getting flushed with excitement at my appearance? Not on her team. She was good, and she knew I was good. She wouldn't have used such a soft approach, especially when she knew of the consequences for when I found out that she made a move against me.

There were just too many variables; I might have been missing something. I couldn't be sure.

I kept us moving, smiling and talking. Just a couple of happy tourists enjoying each other's company; I didn't think they'd be foolish enough to move against me in a public place, if I a move was in fact, what all of this is about. I wanted to test a theory I was formulating, and flagged down a taxi to the Macau Ferry Terminal.

We arrived and I paid the fare, along with a generous tip. I got out first, walked over to the opposite side, and opened the door for Juliette. I extended my hand and she took it. I helped her out and closed the door behind her. We turned and began to walk arm in arm to the entrance of the terminal. I didn't see anything in front of the building that set off my radar, but something, or should I say someone, pinged on it as we walked through the ground floor.

I saw the second guy, another Arabian wolf, this one a giant with a defensive linesman's physique. He had a full beard, and similarly to the first, was wearing an expensive-looking suit. He had shades on, and stood to the side near the ATMs in the lobby. Again, I offered no sign that I had noticed anything out of the ordinary.

_The Arabs stuck out sufficiently…_I thought to myself. _They could be decoys – a deliberate distraction, to hide more camouflaged, Asian players. _Possible, I decided. But not likely. No one else was setting of my radar, and the expense of flying these guys in to simply distract me from their real reconnaissance team would be staggering to say the least. _No…_ my thoughts briefly went back to Carmelita. _The odds of a new variable occurring directly after a meet-n-greet are substantially high. Even if it wasn't Carmelita and her organization, the ability to assemble a team this quick would be nearly impossible. This was the main team. _

The ferry ride to Hong Kong lasted about an hour. There were no Middle Eastern types on board, or anyone else that rubbed me the wrong way. On the other side, we presented our passports to the customs authorities, and then moved into the main lobby outside the arrivals gate.

I spotted the third one immediately. Another Arabian wolf, I had to suppress a smile from appearing on my face. He had longer fur than the others, and appeared to be the youngest of the three. He was blonde, and his fur slightly draped itself over the collar of his navy-colored suit. It was open at the collar, revealing a white shirt underneath, and a stylish-looking pair of shades that hung from his suit's breast pocket. The reason for the creeping smile was because he was obviously the least seasoned of the three. He was leaning casually against the railing at the back of the open-air center of the lobby. Apparently my new friend was afraid to get too close, and tried to be inconspicuous by acting nonchalant; only to make himself stand out more in the process.

I imagined a scenario in which I walked directly up to him. _What would his reaction be?_ Probably fear, but mainly confusion of how I was able to make him out of everyone at the terminal. I pictured the reactions of the other two, as they peered down at the lifeless body of their comrade who would be diagnosed to have died from the symptom of a broken neck. Would they blame him for being an amateur? Or would they blame themselves for underestimating me? The thought was tempting, but obviously there was no way for me to actually do it.

We took the down escalator at the front of the lobby. On the floor below, we had walked around to the opposite side, and then turned one hundred eighty degrees to catch the next escalator down. As we made the turn, I saw our pursuer, who I now thought of as Goldilocks, riding the escalator we had just used.

When we reached the bottom of the escalator we shuffled off to the side to do some slight window shopping. Upon our third stop, we stood outside a Cartier jewelry store, and Juliette's eyes began to sparkle in response to the field of glittering diamonds set out for display.

"Juliette," I called to her, and in response she turned.

"_Oui, _Benneteau?"

"Don't be alarmed," I said, leaning in close. She was shocked by my action. But the tension in her body soon relaxed, she closed her eyes, and eased up on her tip toes.

"Juliette," I whispered in her ear. She gasped. "Do me a favor will you?"

"Anything." She responded immediately.

"Take a look behind us. Just glance around, okay?"

Her eyes shot open. "What?"

"Don't let your eyes linger on any one person. Tell me what you see."

"I…I…don't understand." She struggled with her words, her face of bright crimson.

"Do you see a foreigner? An Arabian wolf? Don't stare, just take a quick peek, then look at everyone else, look at the stores.

"What's… what's going on Benneteau?" she asked, and I heard some concern in her voice.

I took a step back from our seemingly embrace, into her field of vision to make her stop scoping the lobby.

I looked into her eyes, shook my head, and smiled. "Nothing to worry about."

I placed my hand on the small of her back and started moving her along with the pressure of my palm. "Okay, don't look back. Just tell me what you saw."

"There… there was an Arabian wolf in a suit."

"And what was he doing?" I kept my voice calm.

"Talking on his cell phone. I think he was looking at us, but when I looked at him he diverted his eyes… what's going on Benneteau? Do you know him?"

"Something like that." I continued to guide her through a number of twists and turns; deliberately through the locations that served to the rich, posh, upper class, and occasionally stopping in front shops. We were both silent through this entire ordeal, and I felt the tension in Juliette's body. She didn't know what was going on, but all she could do now was follow my lead.

"Why don't we have a change of venue?" I asked Juliette. She only responded with a delicate nod.

We took the escalator down to the ground floor, where we hailed a taxi to drive us to the Central transit station. When we reached our destination, I brought up the need to make a quick withdrawal from Citibank.

We went inside the bank, and Juliette waited while I withdrew forty thousand Hong Kong dollars – about five thousand U.S. – the clerk placed the money in the envelope, sealed it with the bank's official stamp, and handed it to me. I thanked him and walked over to Juliette, who was standing in the corner trying her best to remain calm. She nearly jumped when I approached her.

"How about some shopping?" I asked her, showing her the bulging envelope. We were surrounded by Hermès, Prada, Tiffany, Louis Vuitton, and other famous name brands that I knew she craved. "I'd like to buy you some new things, as a thank you for your company."

She looked at me with confusion. "_Vraiment?_" she asked. Really? Obviously not hiding her suspicion as well as her relief that the weird situation with the Arabian wolf was seemed to be over.

We walked through the boardwalk, entering a number of stores. Juliette browsed through their selection, while I peered through the stores' plate glass window displays, keeping an eye out. Upon reaching our fifth store, I was ten thousand Hong Kong dollars lighter. Juliette was browsing through the silk and cashmere, when I saw goldilocks and his two associates nonchalantly setting up outside in my peripheral vision.

The way they were assembling, I knew that they were no longer in "follow" mode. _All right, time for me to head out. Alone._

I walked over to Juliette and took her gently by the arm.

"Juliette, listen to me carefully. Something bad is going on. I'll tell you what you need to know to get out of it."

She shook her head, as if to clear it. "I'm sorry?"

"There are some men following me. The Arabian wolf you noticed earlier, the one with the cell phone, he's one of them. They intend to do me harm. Do you understand? If you're with me, they'll harm you, too."

She gave me a hesitant smile, as though hoping I was joking. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't… I don't understand." She tried for the smile again, but in the end it faltered.

"I know you don't, and I don't have time to explain. Here, take this." I handed her the envelope. "There's enough in there to get you out of this situation. Go home Juliette, to Paris, Milan, anywhere… just know that, you have to get away from _here_."

"Are you… is it that you're not happy with me?" She asked, still thinking like a professional. But of her profession, not of mine.

"I've been very happy with you. Look at me. What I'm telling you is the truth. You need to get away from here now if you don't want to get hurt. It's me they're after. They don't care about you." Before she could ask anymore questions, I added, "Stay here. I'm going to leave and those men will follow me. Wait for about ten minutes, you leave, too. Go into one of the women's stores nearby. Tell them that you're being hassled by a guy and want to lose him. He's following you, waiting for you outside. They'll let you out the back, which the men won't be expecting. If it doesn't work at the first one, try another."

"Benneteau, I don't understa—"

"Don't speak, we don't have time. Just listen. Use cabs. Go into stores that men don't normally go into – Victoria secrets, things like that. That'll make it harder to follow you because I don't think these guys work with women. Go in the front and out the back, do you understand? Take a lot of elevators, anything that requires people in close proximity, they won't get on with you. It's hard to stay with someone in an elevator without getting spotted. Stay in public places."

She stared at me with stunned silence, her face clearly showing her lack of comprehension to a new world of dangerous situations.

"Once you've done all that I've told you to do, quickly make your way to the airport. Again, they shouldn't follow you, you're not the one they want but in order for all of this to work, you need to remain calm. Do you understand?"

She shook her head again. "I have… I have things at the hotel. I can't just go."

"Are materialistic possessions worth more than your life? Are they worth dying over Juliette? Are they?"

That grabbed her attention, her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

"Are they?"

She shook her head. In agreement or disbelief I couldn't tell.

I was wasting time, and I knew it. My body and mind were screaming for me to go. The longer I stay here the greater the risks. But I needed to let her know one more thing. "Juliette," I said, looking into her eyes, "in a few minutes, certainly in an hour or so, this conversation will start to seem unreal. You'll convince yourself that I was making this all up, trying to get rid of you, but I'm not. You'll be tempted to go back and search for me at the hotel, but I won't be there. I can't go back Juliette, do you understand?"

She looked frightened. Like a small lost child, unsure of where her parents were.

"You're a smart woman and you've got a lot ahead of you. Don't be stupid today. This isn't a game." I didn't know what else to do, but I leaned in and kissed her lightly on her forehead. I gently caressed her cheek in my hand, and with a sad look whispered the words: "I'm sorry."

I turned and left before she could muster up any words. I'd done all I could do. She would either act tactically or she wouldn't.

I exited the store, and made my way for the transit system's subway station. I didn't have to look behind me to know that they were also on the move. I kept my pace casual, yet purposeful; not letting them know that I'd noticed their existence. I noticed as I walked that there were a number of armed policemen in the area, even if the three stooges were armed, I'd doubt they would start a firefight in such a public area.

I followed the signs until I finally reached an escalator heading down. I rode it all the way to the bottom, and I continued along the pathway. The station was filled with surveillance cameras, and for once I actually welcomed their presence. I got on a train heading eastbound, the direction of my hotel. My friends entered the same car on the other end. The four of us rode the subway for a few stops, and got off at Sham Shui Po station. The only way back to the hotel was to make a transfer at this station, I'd have to walk to street level, cut across and head down the subway station on the other end.

I moved through the turnstiles, and took the exit to the street. We were in one of the small communities of Kowloon; it was a colorful place, full of life and vibrant energy. The streets were crowded and noisy; I made my way through the people and turned the corner. I took a quick glance and sure enough, the three of them were trying to squeeze through the people and desperately trying to catch up.

I moved through an alley of food stalls. Meat hung from hooks around me, the pungent aroma of iron as fresh blood pooled underneath them. An assortment of butchered seafood, fish fillet on display atop blocks of ice, eels writhed on bamboo serving plates, their severed halves twitching independently. Mouths of disembodied fish heads slowly opened and closed, the gills behind them rippling, trying still to draw breath. Hawkers gestured and shouted their wares, trying to entice and coax buyers with promises of "cheap, beautiful, and fresh" items of inventory. I continued to walk through, nearing the end. Here were the "live" sections of the market, squeaks of rubber soles making contact with the wet tiled ground. Masses of shrimp, crabs, and frogs twitched in wire baskets, various species of turtles and fish, all in Styrofoam boxes with insignificant amounts of liquid, forcing the ones on top to desperately wriggle their way below their brethren for a drink.

I broke free of the thick crowd just before I reached the escalator down to the second station. I took it two steps at a time, dodging past the stationary riders, knowing the men behind me would read my sudden acceleration as a sign that I'd made them and was trying to escape. As soon as they cleared the crowds I had, they would pursue. And if they caught me, they wouldn't take another chance. They would act.

At the bottom of the escalator, I looked back. There they were, at the top, trying to squeeze past people in their way. Perfect.

I made my way to the maintenance and service area, noting that this being a smaller transit station, there were little to no surveillance cameras or policemen in the area. I reached into my suit's inner pocket, and clasped my hand around the object inside. I slipped it in my pants waistband for easier access. There was a set of blue double doors just ahead, and on the left. They were propped open; beyond them was a loading area in front of a freight elevator. I ducked left into the loading area. I moved left again and hugged the wall, wedged partly behind one of the open doors, looking out through the cap at the hinged end. From here I would see them as they moved past. I tested the door and found it satisfyingly mobile and heavy. If they saw me and tried to move inside, I'd slam the door into them and attack them with my weapon. But it would be best if they went past me entirely.

They did. I watched them moving through the gap in the door. When the last had gone by, I took three deep breaths, giving them another couple of seconds.

I moved out. Adrenaline flowed through my gut and limbs. There they were stopped where the corridor ended in a "T," looking left and right, trying to find a clue to which direction I had gone. In this area, there were no pedestrians but the sound of my heart pounding was deafening. They were clustered up tight, the guy in the middle slightly ahead of the other two. Probably they thought proximity would afford them safety in numbers. In fact, they were turning themselves into a single target.

When I was just six meters away, the one in the center and slightly ahead of the other two started to turn. Maybe to consult; maybe, if he had any sense, to check his back. I increased my pace, hurrying now, needing to close the distance before he turned and saw that his understanding of who was hunting and who was hunted had become suddenly and fatally inaccurate.

I retrieved my weapon, it was a custom telescopic steel baton, similar to the ones law enforcers have, but whereas they had a blunt end, mine on the other hand had a crook. I flicked it noiselessly open, extending it to its maximum length of three feet. When I was four meters out, the lead guy completed his turn. He started to say something to one of his comrades. Then his eyes shifted to me. His head froze. His eyes widened. His mouth started to open.

Three meters. I felt a fresh adrenaline dump in my torso and my limbs.

His partners must have seen his face. Their shoulders tensed, their heads began to turn.

Two meters. The guy to my right was closest. He was turning to his left, toward whatever had made his partner start to freak out. I saw the left side of his face as he came around, slowly, everything moving slowly through my adrenalized vision.

When I was only one meter away, I took a large step in with my left foot, bringing my left arm across my body, partly as defense, partly for counterbalance. I let my right hand drift back, I shifted all of my weight into my front dominate leg, and like a tennis player swung violently upwards to make contact with the ball, in this case, a wolf's skull. There was a solid _crack_, for a moment, his body completely relaxed but he stayed upright, he was out on his feet. Then he started to slide down to the ground. I quickly snapped my hips and immediately started to spin my body around. I did a reverse three-sixty to the right, and with a flick of my wrist anchored the crook end of my baton behind the leg of the thug on the left and soon he was in midair, his limbs flailing about. I raised my baton above my head and brought it down on him as he crashed to the ground.

The third guy, goldilocks, had more time and space to react. While I was dealing with the other two, he had stepped back and gotten himself out of swinging distance. He was groping inside his jacket now, his eyes wide, his movements frantic. If he was only more level headed and seasoned, he might have gotten the drop on me. But adrenaline works in both ways; it assists as well as hinder coordinated and precise motor skills. I moved my body so that I was standing sideways to him. I changed the grip of my baton to the middle, shifted my weight to my back leg; I arched my back, did a quick step forward, and hurled it like an Olympics' javelin thrower. He saw it coming and jerked partly out of the way, but it caught him in the shoulder. He stumbled and managed to get out a silenced pistol, a big one, trying to aim as well as trying to regain his balance. Before he could do either one of them, I was on him.

I caught the gun in my left hand and forced his aim downwards, and used my right foot to blast his legs out from underneath him. I went down with him, keeping my weight over his chest, he let out an involuntary _"oof" _when he landed, the air escaping his lungs. I felt the gun go off as we hit the ground, heard the _pffft_ of the silenced report and a crack as the round tore into the wall behind me. I used both of my hands to disarm him. The thumb is the weakest part of any person's grip, using my left hand; I grabbed for his thumb and pried it back, snapping it. He howled in pain, I used my right to slam his wrist to the ground and the gun came loose. His focus changed from attacking me to: "the gun!" I elbowed him in the jaw and Goldilocks' head rocked back. I noticed behind me that the second guy had now recovered enough to get a gun out. But, like his partner, he was adrenalized and having trouble with his fine motor movements. His hand was shaking and he hesitated, I pulled Goldilocks' body over my own, and made a grab for his gun.

I straightened my right arm and focused on the front sight, placing it on the second guy's torso, center mass. The gun was a Glock 21 in .45 caliber. Healthy stopping power. The second guy's shaking worsened as he understood the situation, he couldn't very well pull the trigger without hitting his underling. I willed myself to slow it down, make it count. Goldilocks jerked and my aim wavered. _Shit_.

I wrenched my arm underneath Goldilocks' neck and pulled upwards in a sleeper hold, and started to readjust my aim. The second guy moved the gun, trying to track me, the movements overlarge and shaking. He must have known the situation full out, maybe because he saw no other possible alternative, his snapped. He opened fire. He was spraying and praying, his eyes closed, his body hunching forward involuntarily. _Pffft. Pffft. Pffft. _Small clouds of dust kicked up along the concrete around me. I heard the sounds of ricochets. Someone screamed.

_Breathe. Slow down. Breathe. . . now aim._

I double-tapped on the trigger. The first round caught him in the right shoulder. He spun around. The second shot missing the mark and hitting the door I was hiding behind earlier. I readjusted, compensated, and fired again. This time catching him in the square of his back, near the spine, and dropped him to the floor. I released the grip I had on Goldilocks, and slid his now unconscious body off of me. I hurried to my feet.

I moved to the guy I had just dropped. He was on his stomach, writhing, groaning something unintelligible. I shot him in the back of the head.

The first one I'd hit with my cane-slash-baton was flat on his back, his legs splayed back under him, seemingly unconscious. I shot him in the forehead.

I turned to the last one, Goldilocks, _poor Goldilocks._ He was on his ass, scrambling away from me, desperately trying to get on his feet. His back hit against the wall, and with his broken hand he tried to push himself up, but fell flat back on his ass. He tried again; his face was green with pain and terror. He started to say something, but before he could get a single word out, I shot him in the chest and he collapsed to the ground, his legs still kicking. I took three long steps forward and shot him again, in the forehead. His head rocked back and he became still.

I looked around now. Although there weren't anybody physically there, it was chaos. Screams and shouts of panic echoed through the corridor.

I needed to get the hell out. But I also needed information. _Who were these bozos working for?_ I quickly and methodically searched each of the bodies. They were similarly equipped: Cashmere jacket with the Brioni name brand stitched under the breast pocket, white dress shirts which probably looked better when they weren't soaked with blood, their necks adorned with gold chains, and a few hundred Hong Kong dollars in their front pants pockets. They were travelling sterile, at least the first two. Goldilocks was the last of the three that I inspected; I opened up his jacket and saw what I was looking for: his cellphone. I pulled the phone free and picked up my weapon. With a quick tap on the ground I re-configured it back into its portable state, and placed it back into my suit's inner pocket. I also placed the gun I used in my back waistband and carefully used my suit's coattails to cover it.

The screams were now getting more frantic, I've stayed for too long. I hurried back down the corridor, and peeked around the corner, it was sheer chaos. A stampede panic tends to feed on itself long after the originating cause is gone. Probably most of those who are running around didn't even know what they were running from, hadn't seen or heard anything. I joined the screaming crowd. I hurried my way back to the entrance, not making contact with anyone's eyes.

By the time I had reached the entrance where the four of us had first come in, the collective rhythm of people around me was normal, just food shoppers absorbed in the serious business of picking out the best ingredients for a bargain price. I moved past them and into the street.

I removed my jacket and slipped the gun inside while doing so. I wiped down the gun as I walked, making sure I covered all of its surfaces. I did it by feel. Barrel. Trigger guard. Trigger. Handle. Butt.

Fingerprints were only part of the problem, of course. When you're stressed, you sweat. Sweat contains DNA. Likewise for microscopic dead skin cells, which, like sweat, can adhere to metal. If you're unlucky enough to be detained as a suspect, it's difficult to explain when your DNA is all over the murder weapon.

I turned into an alley filled with garbage containers pushed up against the walls of the adjacent buildings. I looked around and found an aluminum rain gutter that ran the entire side of the building. I followed it until I found the part which snaked down the length of the wall and lead into an open drain beneath. I moved to the drain and dropped the gun into the drain, seeing a splash as I did so. The water would probably wash away any trace DNA, and even if DNA were present, they'd have to have me in custody as a suspect to get a match.

I turned the corner, balled up the jacket, and stuffed it deep into a pile of refuse in a metal container. I unbuttoned my dress shirt I was wearing and did a similar discarding a few streets away. I was now wearing only pants and a tee-shirt.

I bought a cheap shirt from a street vendor, and then found a coffee shop where I could spend a few minutes collecting myself. I ordered a chai tea and took a seat at an empty table. I took in a deep breath and brought my drink to my lips. I noticed my hands were shaking.

_I could have died, but didn't. I was still here. _Even if you've been through numerous life threatening encounters, in the aftermath you want to laugh out loud, or jump around, shout, do something to proclaim your ownership of life. There was always, a giddy elation. I managed to maintain my placid manner, even though my entire body and mind were on the edge of rebelling.

I kept my mind busy; I took out the phone I took from Goldilocks. The unit was an Ericsson, the T230. It had a SIM card, meaning it was a GSM model, usable pretty much everywhere but Japan and Korea, which employ unique cell phone standard. I examined it for transmitters and didn't find any. I thought for a moment. Did the T230 incorporate emergency services location technology? I tend to read almost compulsively to stay on top of such developments, but even so things slip through the cracks. No, the T230 wasn't that new a model. I was okay on that score, too.

I powered the phone up and checked the stored numbers. The interface was in Arabic, but the functions were standardized and I was able to navigate it without a problem. The call log, I noticed, was full. He hadn't thought, or more accurately, he hadn't had the time to purge it. I pondered my next point of action. There were too many questions, and not enough answers. How did they find me? How did they know who to look for? I'd been careful; the only way for someone to make me had to be near goddamn psychic. There were three suspects that came to mind immediately: Scar, Carmelita… and Bentley.

I drank my tea and left. I took out my phone and dialed Bentley's phone, moving on foot as the call went through.

"Hello," I heard him say.

"It's me."

A/N: And there you have it, chapter nine of _Sly Cooper: The heart of Darkness._ I hoped you enjoyed it. There is a lot of technical babble that I'm not quite sure if everyone will understand; I tried to put them into layman's terms. I thought it was high time I introduced Sly's go-to-weapon of choice, his cane. However, because this story is based on more realistic means, I made it into a telescopic baton. Custom-made of course.

There isn't much that I can say except: Please feel free to leave a review if you enjoyed it, or even if you hated it. I'd like to hear from all of you. Chapter ten will be out shortly, seeing as how I had to stop myself from making this chapter over ten pages. I broke what I wrote in two halves, I was planning on doing a double release of this story, but I decided against it. I want people to read this one, digest it, review it, and then hit y'all with the next section. Anyway, thank you all for your constant support and I'll see you all next time.

*Updated after posting* There were a number of issues when I uploaded this chapter. I don't know why, but the paragraphs at the end clustered together, they were in different size fonts, different fonts all together... so I don't know what's going on; but hopefully this is still readable.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N & Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights to any of the characters that are affiliated with _Sucker Punch Productions (2002-05)_, _Nihilistic Software (2011)_, and/or _Sanzaru Games (2012-Present)_. I do however, own their products and highly recommend to those who don't, to please support the creators of the franchise. The portrayal of their characters in this fan fiction is just that, of fiction; they do not in any way reflect the "actual-true fictional storyline" created by the *stated above* developers of the Sly Cooper franchise.

"It's me." I said into the phone.

"What's going on?" Bentley asked with what seemed to be genuine worry.

"I'm concerned about something that just happened."

"Concerned? Concerned with what?"

"Three Arabs just tried to kill me in Hong Kong."

"What?"

"Three Arabs just tried to kill me in Hong Kong."

"I heard you. Are you serious?"

"You think I make this shit up to amuse you?" I said. There was a pause, and then he asked, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. As I said, I'm concerned."

"Are you… are you in any danger now?

"Not from the three who were after me."

There was a pause.

"You mean –"

"They're harmless now."

Another pause. He said, "You're concerned about how they found you."

A smirk crossed my face, smart guy. "Good for you."

"It wasn't me."

_I know._ Or at least I already half-believed that. If I had believed that Bentley was indeed trying to screw me over, I'd have done this conversation face to face rather than warning him by calling. I couldn't imagine why he would have turned on me, but you never have the full picture on things like that. Circumstances change. We develop reasons, fears, and other agenda where they had none before.

Instead of confronting his denial I said, "Who else knew I was in Macau? They knew exactly how to track me from there. One of them was waiting to pick me up when I arrived on the ferry terminal in Hong Kong."

"I don't… look, I have absolutely no reason to try and screw you, none what-so-ever. I don't know who they are…were, or how they managed to identify you, let alone track you. But I can try to find out."

"Convince me," I said an octave lower.

"I'll try." He said, before asking "How do I contact you when I find anything?"

"I'll check the electronic bulletin board."

"It would be more efficient and convenient if you would just leave your cell phone on."

"I'll check the bulletin board."

He sighed. "Okay. You can always call me at this number. It shouldn't take more than twelve hours, I'll be sure to have something posted by then. Anything else?"

"Carmelita?"

"Nothing. Still working on it, however I do have some information about the first 'lady of the night' that you asked. I've already posted it up where you told me to."

My thoughts immediately shifted towards Juliette, "About that, it's no longer needed. I… the lead turned out to be a dead end. I appreciate the –"

The phone started vibrating in my hand, indicating that a call was coming in. I looked at the screen and my eyes went wide. _What the hell?_

"Look, Bentley, I've got to go, something has come up."

"What? What's do you me—"

I hung up my call with Bentley, and hit the "accept call" button on the second caller.

"Juliette?"

On the other end of the phone was Juliette's voice, however it was distant and muffled, but I was able to make out the words.

"_Qui êtes-vous__? __Que faites-vous__dans ma chambre?_- Who are you? What are you doing in my room?

An Arabic accented male voice responded, "_Nous sommes ici__pour parler avec vous."_ –We're here to talk with you.

_Shit._ Was the only word that came to mind. My brain ceased and halted all its functions. I suddenly stopped and became rooted in place.

"Look, just take whatever you want. I don't have much, but please, don't hurt me." I could hear the fear in her voice.

"We mean you no harm; we are here just to speak with you." Replied a second voice.

The conversation went on. I didn't know what was going on, but the only thing I did know was, Juliette was in trouble. I hung up the call.

_Shit._ I stood in place for what seemed to be an eternity, knowing that every second mattered. But what to do? I instructed her specifically to what she must and mustn't do, and she disobeyed my direct instructions. I should leave her; it was her own fault for her being in the situation she's currently in. It's not unusual for a non-participant to become a casualty in my line of work, hell that's why they're called "casualties."

I gripped the phone to the point of it hurting my hand. It's gotten too hot for my taste. The op was blown, and I'll have to move up the time table that I've originally set, and go back on the deal I'd hashed out with Carmelita. _Making Carmelita into an enemy was something I didn't want to do, but I'm left with no choice._

Scar should still be at the hotel, I can wait for an opportune time, take him out, and that'll be the end of it. Get in and get the hell out. That's the smart thing to do, that's how I'd survived for so long in this world, by knowing when to get out before anyone noticed I was there… so why am I hesitating now?

"Shit," I said aloud, full of annoyance and anger. I looked at my phone and dialed in a number. No answer. I rang the number a total of five times before someone finally picked up.

"H…hello?" her voice was uncertain.

"Juliette. It's me, Benneteau. I just wanted to see if you do me the honor of having dinner with me tonight." I said in French. I could hear a slight echo, and I knew I was correct to anticipate that I'd be put on speaker phone.

There was an awkward silence.

"Juliette?"

"I'm here Benneteau," another pause. "Where are you?"

"I'm near the hotel; I should be there in about ten minutes. Should I make a reservation for two or will I be dining alone tonight?"

"Yes," she replied. "Two would be sufficient, unless you have someone else you would like to invite. You haven't been cheating on me, have you Benneteau?"

Good, she was picking up the subtle message I was giving her, and her way of answering although not completely discreet, shouldn't alarm the thugs that are carefully listening along with her. She was warning me that there were more than just the two up there with her. "Of course not," I laughed. "I'll meet you downstairs in ten. Be sure to dress up, oh and use the back exit, I'll be coming from that direction. I'll see you then."

I clicked off. They'll be itching to get out of her hotel now. _Which way are they likely to go?_ I thought, trying to decide where I could set up an ambush. It didn't take me more than five minutes to get to the hotel, thankfully the hotel she was staying at was a lower end one with little patrons, more commonly used by local tourists who were visiting friends and family in Macau, and by business types who just needed a place to stay for the night. I bolted up the stairwell and paused outside the entrance to her floor, listening. After about half a minute of silence, I heard the sound of a door opening from somewhere down the corridor.

I opened the door part way, then took out my key chain and extended the dental mirror through the opening in the doorway until I had a view of a long narrow hallway. An Arabian wolf swept his head left and right, and then nodded. A moment later, Juliette stepped out in a gorgeous black ensemble that clung to her like death, which I hoped wasn't some kind of omen; she was followed closely by a second Arabian wolf that had his paw on her shoulder, not in a gentle way.

The one in the lead checked the corridor in both directions, then they started to move toward my position. I withdrew the mirror. There was a CO2-type fire extinguisher on the wall, and I grabbed it and stepped to the right of the door, toward the side where it opened. I pulled the safety pin and aimed the nozzle face high.

Two seconds went by, then five. I heard their footsteps approaching, heard them right on the other side of the door.

I breathed shallowly through my mouth, my fingers tense around the trigger, for a split second in my imagination, I saw the door start to open, but it didn't. They had continued past the door to the stairs and were headed for the elevator.

Damn. I had hoped that they'd take the stairs. I eased the door open again and extended my mirror, adjusting its angle until I could see them. They had her sandwiched in tightly; the guy to the left was holding something against her back. I assumed a gun, but maybe a knife. The one on the right wasn't holding a weapon, but that didn't stop him from placing his hand in areas he shouldn't be touching, much to the disgust of Juliette, but she remained reluctantly silent.

I couldn't follow them from there with any hope of surprising them. I wouldn't be able to close the distance before they heard me coming, and if they were armed, my chances would range from poor to non-existent.

I immediately turned and bolted down the stairs. When I got to the first floor I cut across the lobby, stopping behind a weight-bearing pillar that they'd have to walk past as they stepped off the elevator. I braced the extinguisher against my waist and eased the mirror past the corner of the pillar.

They emerged half a minute later, bunched up in a tight formation that you learn to avoid because it makes your whole team vulnerable to an ambush. They were obviously afraid Juliette was going to try to run.

I slipped the mirror and key chain back into my pocket, listening to their footsteps. When they sounded only a few centimeters away I bellowed a warrior's _kiyai_ and leaped out, pulling the trigger and aiming face high.

Nothing happened. The extinguisher hiccupped, then made a disappointing hissing sound. But that was all. _Oh for fuck sakes._

The lead guy's mouth dropped open, and he started fumbling inside his coat. Feeling like I was moving in slow motion, sure I was going to be a second late; I brought up the butt end of the extinguisher up. Saw his hand coming free, holding a short-barreled revolver. I stepped in hard and jammed the extinguisher into his face, getting my weight behind the blow. There was a satisfying thud and he spilled into Juliette and the guy in the rear, his gun clattering to the floor.

The second guy stumbled backward, slipping clear of Juliette, pin wheeling his arms. I launched the extinguisher at him like a missile, catching him directing on his chest. He went down and I was on him in an instant. Before he could get his hands up to protect himself I pivoted my body in a whip like motion, and used my elbow to deliver a blow to his right temple. There was a loud crack and he went limp.

I picked up the loose gun and brought the gun up, but his friend wasn't moving. His face looked like he'd run into a flagpole, his nose was bent painfully to the right and blood was streaming out of it. There was a scream emanating from behind me, and I turned around just in time to see a third goon emerge from the elevator, where he must have been positioned from the beginning. He grabbed Juliette around the neck from behind with his left hand, trying to use her as a shield, while his right hand went to his jacket pocket, groping for a weapon. But before he could pull it out, Juliette spun one-eighty so that she was facing him, grabbed his right hand and wrenched it out and upwards, revealing a similar model to the one that I had in my hands. She made a grab for it, which resulted in him arching his back, and raising the gun higher, as if playing a game of "keep away", she then proceeded to knee him in the groin, which resulted in him grunting and doubling over. I had closed the distance between us, launching a field-goal-style kick at his head with enough force to lift his whole body from the ground.

Juliette was looking at me, her eyes wide, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

"_Vous allez bien? " _I asked, taking her by the arm. "Are you alright? Did they hurt you?"

She shook her head. "They told me they were from the Embassy, but I knew they weren't: they wouldn't show me any identification. Who are they Benneteau? They kept asking me to tell them where to find someone named 'Cooper'?

Keeping my hand on her arm, I started moving us through the lobby toward the back exit, my eyes sweeping back and forth for signs of danger outside.

"Benneteau, can you tell me –"

"No, how about _you_ tell _me_ why exactly are you still here? I specifically told you to leave Macau." I said, while scanning the surrounding area.

"I… I couldn't leave, I didn't have my passport."

_Christ, I should have known that was the reason._

"Benneteau can you please just tell me what's going on?"

"I'll explain later. Right now, we've got to get you someplace safe."

"Safe? With you?" She glanced back at the hotel, picturing the three wolves; their faces bloody masks, then back at me.

"I'll explain everything to you, but not now. For now, the only thing that matters is that you're in danger, and I can't help you if you don't believe me. Let me just get you somewhere safe and tell you what all of this is about, okay?"

She nodded, and remained silent.

I had wanted to search the wolves on the floor for ID of some other way of identifying them, but I couldn't do that and get Juliette moving at the same time.

We cut across the dark parking lot of the building across from her hotel, emerging onto a well-lit street where we caught a cab. I told the driver to take us to the shopping district. I checked the side views as we drove. There were few cars on the road, and none seemed to be trying to follow us.

What I had in mind was a love hotel. The love hotel is an institution, born of the country's housing shortage. With families, sometimes extend ones, jammed into small apartments, lovers, specifically moms and dads, need to have somewhere to go to be alone. Hence the idea of a "love hotel" was installed at certain rates for either a "rest" or a "stay," famously discreet front desk, no credit card required for registration, and fake names were then norm. Some of them are completely over-the-top, with theme rooms sporting Roman baths and Americana settings.

We got out of the cab and walked for fifteen minutes doing a subtle surveillance detection route before ultimately heading into the seedy love hotel districts of Macau. I chose one at random, where we told the old female calico cat standing inside at the front desk that we wanted a room with a bath, for a stay, not just a rest. I put cash on the counter and she reached underneath, then handed us a key, no questions asked.

We took the elevator to the fourth floor, and found our room at the end of a short hallway. I unlocked the door and Juliette went in first. I followed her in, locking the door behind me. We left our shoes in the entranceway. There was only one bed – twins in a love hotel would be as out of place as a Bible – but there was a decent-sized couch in the room that I could curl up on.

Juliette sat down on the edge of the bed and faced me. "Here's where we are," she said, her voice even. "Tonight three male Arabian wolves were waiting for me in my room. They claimed to be part of a mission on Embassy orders, but obviously they weren't – or, if they were agents of the embassy, they were on some kind of private mission. I'd think you were with them, but I saw how badly you hurt them. You asked me to go somewhere safe with you so you could explain. I'm listening."

I nodded, trying to find the right words to begin.

"I'm not who I say I am."

She laughed, "Oh god, please don't tell me you're some super-secret spy on a mission."

I looked at her with a deadpan face.

"You're joking…"

"I'm here on a mission, that involves a very dangerous man. I can't get into too much detail about it, but just know that you're in danger."

"So what was I? An alibi? A scape goat while you went on with your business?

"Yes," It was hard to admit to her. "I needed to look natural, an average raccoon, so I requested your company's service. I didn't mean for you to get into this situation, but I promise that I'll do everything I can to get you out of it safely."

She was silent for a moment. Then suddenly leaped off the bed and faced me squarely. "Tell me who the hell you are, or I swear I will go to the police, and I don't care what happens after that!"

_Progress, of a sort,_ I thought. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything!"

"Okay."

"Starting with, who were those men in my hotel room?"

"Okay."

"Well? Who are they?"

"I don't know."

She got angrier by the second. She looked at me for a long beat, then sat back down on the bed. "Who do you work for?" she asked, her voice flat.

"It doesn't matter."

Another long beat and the same flat tone: "Then tell me what you want."

I looked at her, wanting her to see my eyes: "I want to make sure you don't get hurt."

Her face was expressionless. "And you're going to do that by …?"

"These wolves are coming after you because they think you can lead them to me. But as long as you're here with me, and stay out of sight for the time being, you'll be safe."

We were silent again, I could tell she had a number of questions she wanted to ask me, however she knew from the answers I gave her in the previous line of questioning, her next salvo wouldn't yield any useful information. I walked over to the windowsill and looked out onto the streets painted red, enveloped by the crimson glow of the poorly cared for neon signs. I didn't see anybody that set off my radar.

"Can't you just take me to the airport?"

I turned away from the window. "No."

"Can you stop giving such ambiguous and one-word answers? What do you mean by 'no'?"

"What I mean is: you no longer have a window of opportunity in which you can leave Macau. I specifically instructed you on the urgency of your situation to leave. They know now that you're a link, a link that can lead them back to me. Tonight, the three wolves were testing the waters by tugging on it, to see whether or not they could reel in whatever was at the other end of that chain. Whoever sent those three to your hotel room, now knows for a fact, the repercussions of pulling on that chain. The next time they get their hands on you, they will not be so nice."

Juliette went quiet, and fell into a somber mood. "So what now?" she asked.

"For now we stay here." _What the hell am I saying?_ "I made that mistake of leaving you alone the first time. I'm not going to make it again." _You idiot! She's safe, there's no reason for you to stay. You're just putting yourself in more danger; just look how much shit she's dragged with her!_ "However, for an unknown amount of time, you're going to have to stay here, in this room, while I tend to my _work_. I promise that after everything is done, I'll get you out of this safely."

I made my way to the door. Juliette quickly rushed me and barred the door with her body.

"And where the hell do you think you're going?"

"I'm going to get us some refreshments. As I said, we're going to be holed up here for an unknown period of time. I would like to stock up on food and water… now, if you don't mind?" I gestured for her to step aside.

"How do I know that you won't simply leave me here once you step out this door?"

I looked her in her eyes. "You'll just have to trust me."

She stared for three excruciatingly long beats. She was searching my eyes for any hint of lying, but she must have seen enough, because she soon stepped aside.

"Don't expect anything too fancy, the district isn't exactly known for their hygiene or quality."

"Just come back, that's all I want."

I smiled at her, "Don't miss me too much while I'm gone."

"Don't worry, I won't." she retorted, as she closed the door behind me.

**A/N: **I was surprised at the number of reviews that stated their sorrow for Juliette's sudden departure. As you all know, I hadn't intended for her to be such a developed character, she was used for cover no more no less. But the reviews read into her character and developed a sort of favoritism towards her, resulting in me writing that whole lunch date in a previous chapter. And again, you all cried out for some sort of justice to her character, and well, she's back. This chapter was an impromptu one that has completely changed what I had originally intended for this series. So I've completely scraped what I had originally decided for the story from a more personal want to what my audience wants.

I typed this up in the AMs, so no proper intro to my reviewers (I apologize for that, but I'm just too tired to respond to each and every one of you individually without it being rushed). Even this author's note was forced.

**A/N #2: **I was away from this site for a while because of school, and well, _Sly Cooper: Thieves in time_ and _Ni no Kuni_. However my workload has lessened and I've beaten and achieved the platinum trophy with 100% completion about a week ago for Sly Cooper, so I now have some free time on my hands.

What this "extra time" equates to is: that I typed up this chapter of _Sly Cooper: Heart of Darkness_, that I am _typing_ a chapter for Sly Cooper: Sly as a Fox, and as a special tribute to my dear friend and occasional co-author/editor of her stories, ForeverFreelancer, I've decided to create a Valentine's Day piece. Even though it's no longer Valentine's Day, and I didn't come up with the idea until a week after V-day… but I digress. Look forward as I try to release them all within the weekend.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and continue to read and review my works and PM with any suggestions or requests. I don't know to whether continue or discontinue a story unless I know what you all think. I thank those who have recently followed and favorite my stories and I, and I hope to hear from all of you soon.

Once again, leave a comment in the comment section, and let me know what you all think. Take care and have a good night, it's time for me to ZzZZzZzz…


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